Counting
by Randomcat1832
Summary: "She would sit by the window for hours, waiting, and counting the days until that enigmatic blue box finally came for her." Young Amelia's early days waiting for the Doctor.
1. Chapter 1

.

 _Counting_

.~*~*~*~.

Author's Introduction: Greetings, fellow Whovian, and thanks for deciding to give my latest story a look-see. Now, then. On to basic business. Amy is my favourite companion, and I will always love her heart-warming friendship with the Doctor. This will probably become apparent in later works of mine. And that is why I am writing this story. It functions as a gap-filler and will cover most of Amy's first year waiting for her Raggedy Doctor to show up. It is set in the timeline from _The Eleventh Hour_ ; that is, Amy's original timeline when she had the crack in her wall and whatnot. To anyone who is wondering, this story is not **in any way** an Eleven/Amy story. I in no way ship Amy and the Doctor. They are best friends and family, but they're not romantically involved when she starts travelling with him (even if she _did_ kiss him that one time). Amy will always love Rory, and Eleven will love River. And that's that. Also, it would be strange to be romantically involved with your son-in-law…  
But now I shall shut up and let you start reading. I hope you all enjoy. Please remember **reviews make me happy**.

Rating: K+ for mentions of/implications to child neglect

Estimated Length: 5-9 chapters

For my own reference: 11th fanfiction published, 3rd story for _Doctor Who_.

* * *

Chapter One

.~*~*~*~.

 _8 April 1996_

The early April sky was already warm with the first yellow glow of dawn by the time Amelia Pond woke up, blinking and confused at first as to why she was lying out here in her front garden with her little suitcase under her. But that confusion lasted little more than a second as she remembered last night's funny and wonderful events; and how that raggedy man called the Doctor had shown up.

With the realisation it was already dawn, a touch of alarm filled Amelia: what if the Raggedy Doctor had shown up and she'd been asleep and missed him? But then she reasoned he would have woken her if he'd shown up, and that meant he must not have come back for her yet. She sighed in disappointment and her lower lip broke out in a pout. So much for five minutes. If it was sunrise already then she must have been sleeping out here in her garden for _hours_.

And she was all ready for her adventures, too; she was clad in her best spring coat with the fancy buttons and her mittens and hat; her red Wellies. Her suitcase she'd packed last night. It didn't have too many things in it, only the bare necessities: a change of clothes or two, a couple of her favourite storybooks, and her teddy. Nothing pointless and silly had been packed, like her homework or her exercise book, so the suitcase wasn't very heavy.

She wondered how much longer she'd have to wait. Hopefully not too much longer. Waiting and doing nothing was boring. But Amelia decided both with typical childish and Scottish stubbornness that she would wait as long as she had to out here. The Raggedy Doctor had been funny and kind _and_ had fixed the crack in her wall _and_ had a time machine. A man like him was worth waiting for forever.

Amelia was still a little sore from half-lying, half-sitting on her suitcase all night. She got up, unbuttoned her jacket and wandered over to the swing set, where she sat and half-heartedly swung. But her mind was elsewhere; her gaze fixed on the skies, her little seven-year-old heart gripped with undaunted, but desperate hope.

Maybe just five more minutes.

Or ten.

Just fifteen more, she told herself, and then the Raggedy Doctor's blue box that was in reality a real, actual time machine would come flying down from the sky.

Except Amelia Pond waited longer than fifteen minutes, sitting on the swings. She waited until the sun had risen fully above the horizon and the sky turned a clear, cheerful blue obscured only by the occasional puffy white cloud in its seeming endlessness. Such clear skies were rather atypical of England, especially this time of year. Amelia waited, her unwavering patience keeping her bound to the swing until a shout from the house interrupted her. "Amelia! Amelia, where are you, love?"

Aunt Sharon was back! Amelia hopped off the swing. She hadn't been expecting her aunt back until the evening at least, and she sighed in misery. Aunt Sharon wasn't going to take the news of the demolished garden shed lightly. But all the same, Amelia shouted, "I'm here, Aunt Sharon!" and ran into the house, taking care to leave her suitcase behind just in case the Raggedy Doctor showed up.

So he knew she was still waiting.

Amelia traipsed back into the house, where she found her aunt in the kitchen. She must have come in through the back or the side door, else Amelia would have seen her coming down the road when she was not-quite- swinging. She shed her jacket and hat, tossing them onto an empty chair and coming to Aunt Sharon's side by the stove. "Here I am."

"Good morning, Amelia — " Aunt Sharon turned away from the pancakes she was cooking and appraised her niece. "Goodness, you're still in your nightie. What were you doing, playing outside without even getting dressed first?" Amelia opened her mouth to answer, but her aunt cut her off as her attention returned to breakfast. "I came in this morning and started breakfast, and the house was all quiet, so I thought you were still asleep in bed, but I went up to your room and you weren't in there … but never mind that. Breakfast's nearly ready now. Did you brush your teeth, at least?"

"Yes," Amelia lied automatically, and her aunt gave a vague _hmm_ of approval as she continued on cooking. She hovered by the stove, wondering for a second if she ought to tell Aunt Sharon about the Raggedy Doctor. She had to tell _someone_ ; if she didn't she was sure she was going to burst, and besides, her aunt deserved to know what had happened to the garden shed. So, bouncing on the balls of her feet, Amelia blurted excitedly, "Guess what!?"

"Hmm?" Aunt Sharon gave Amelia a brief smile, then moved the pancakes in the frying pan onto a plate, hot and steaming. A small pile was already beginning to form, and the maple syrup was out of the fridge and on the table. She reached for the glass bowl on the counter next to her, spooning the last of the pancake batter into the frying pan.

Eagerly, Amelia recalled her encounter with the Raggedy Doctor last night to her aunt, every last wonderful detail of it. How his blue box had come in the night and crashed into the shed, and how he'd come climbing out of the box, and asked for an apple, and how she'd let him into her house and he'd been funny and nice even if he hadn't liked the apple, and how he'd eaten the fish fingers and custard and let her eat ice cream _from the tub with the scoop_! "And then after," Amelia chattered excitedly, following her aunt to the table and fetching the milk from the fridge, "we went up to my room and he fixed the crack in my wall and, oh, he said there was an alien prison behind it and Prisoner Zero had got out and then there was this big eye that was the guard! But he fixed the crack so now no one else can escape, and then he said he had to go fix his box and it was a time machine and he said he'd come back for me in five minutes and I could go travelling with him into space and in time! And then he left and I waited for him, 'cept he hasn't come yet; he's late. But I know he'll be here soon," she finished breathlessly.

Aunt Sharon smiled fondly, pouring herself some milk. "A time machine, eh?"

She nodded enthusiastically, pausing only in her tale to take a couple bites of pancake. "And he really, really said I could go with him, in his blue box; and his box said _Police_ on it except he said he wasn't a policeman, but really I didn't think he was a policeman in the first place because he didn't dress like one or anything and his clothes were all raggedy and dirty and too small." Amelia paused to take another bite of pancake, her eyes shining. "And … his hair was funny, too. All floppy and messy, but I liked it."

Her aunt gave a little chuckle. "Well, it sounds like a lovely dream, Amelia."

The words made Amelia look up and scowl. "It's not a dream," she said. "It was real. The Raggedy Doctor is for real, and his time machine and everything are real too." She wanted to roll her eyes at her aunt; she knew the difference between dreams and real life. And besides, if the Doctor had been part of a dream then she would have woken up in bed, not on top of her little suitcase in the garden, with her jacket over her nightie. If the Doctor had been part of a dream then the crack in her wall would still be there.

And the garden shed, too.

Aunt Sharon was just being a boring grown-up; _cynical_ was the word. (Amelia had learned that word from her friend Rory, who knew lots of big and fancy grown-up words and he told his friends about them). Cynical. Cy-ni-cal. She liked the way it sounded, that word. Yes, Aunt Sharon was just being _cynical_. Grown-ups like her never wanted to believe in those sorts of things, fairy tale things.

Except for the Raggedy Doctor, of course. He was technically a grown-up, but he wasn't boring at all. He was special, and different, and that was why Amelia had nominated him her new best friend — Rory and Mels would simply have to settle for being just her second-best friends.

Aunt Sharon sighed; it was very much a grown-up sigh. "Oh, Amelia. You're a big girl now. You know there's no such thing as time machines. You just had a very exciting dream, that's all, love."

Amelia's indignance was mounting. "But it _wasn't_ a dream! He's the Doctor, that's what he's called, and he is _too_ real." She glowered up at her aunt, and when she opened her mouth, surely to deliver more boring grown-up advice, Amelia interrupted. A very clever argument had just occurred to her, and she felt very proud of herself for it. She had _evidence_ that her Doctor was real, after all. Didn't she? She could _prove_ he was for real. "I _know_ he was for real, Aunt Sharon! If he was a dream, then …. why is the crack in my wall gone?" She arranged her features into a smug expression.

Her aunt raised her eyebrows. "That crack you were always on about?"

She bobbed her head, up and down, sure she'd emerged victorious. Now Aunt Sharon would _have_ to believe her. "And the garden shed." Ha. She had _two_ pieces of evidence.

But then Aunt Sharon only sighed and gave a little shake of her head accompanied by a tiny smile — not an exasperated one but one of fondness, the kind of shake of head she would give when her friends visited for supper and Amelia told a story, the kind of shake of head she would always give with the words, _Oh, well, you know. Little Amelia and her runaway imagination, bless her_. With that shake of the head, Amelia got to her feet, walked round to the other side of the table, and gave her aunt's sleeve a tug. "The crack's really, really gone; and the garden shed, too. Come on, Aunt Sharon. I'll _show_ you!"

"Now, really, Amelia, we're having breakfast — "

She tugged again, more insistently. "Come _on_ , Aunt Sharon! You have to see!" Ignoring protests, Amelia tugged hard until her aunt stood up, shook herself free of her clinging niece, and planted her hands on her hips, fixing the seven-year-old with the stern look of a guardian. Amelia gave her a stern look right back, the kind only an especially stubborn Scottish child could give, and finally, a very reluctant and rather impatient Aunt Sharon relented, throwing her hands up in the air.

"All right, then, Amelia. Show me … whatever it is you want to show me, and then I want us to sit down and have a nice breakfast together." Her tone softened, and an uneasy hand lifted to rustle Amelia's shoulder-length fiery red hair. "You can keep playing all you want after breakfast, all right, seeing as school's out today. You can run over and play this game with your friends if you like. But let's have a nice breakfast together, you and me, all right, love?" The awkward hand dropped to her side.

Amelia bit back the bitter retort that sprang to the edge of her tongue: _you want to have a nice breakfast together when you're hardly ever home_? She might have been only a month and a bit over seven, but it was enough to build up some rather sour feelings against her aunt's near-constant absence. She grabbed a hold of her aunt's sleeve again and tugged her down the corridor to the front door, which she pushed open. The two of them standing in the threshold, Amelia pointed insistently at the splintered remains of the garden shed. They were still smoking slightly.

Much to Amelia's satisfaction, her aunt blanched. " _Good_ ness! Amelia, what … what really happened here?" The damage to the shed was shocking to say the least, and certainly not something her seven-year-old niece could have accomplished, wild though she might be.

Said seven-year-old looked up at her Aunt Sharon with a superior expression on her little face. "I _told_ you already. The Doctor crashed his time machine into it." She hesitated, then added, "It was an accident, though."

"But … it's completely ruined!" Aunt Sharon continued, a hand moving slowly to her mouth as she began to approach the demolished shed. "How can that be?" She sighed. "Oh, just what I bleeding need." She rubbed at her temples. "Go inside and finish your breakfast, Amelia," came the next comment, accompanied by a vague wave of the hand in the general direction of the house and the victorious seven-year-old, whose face promptly fell. "I'll need to phone a man to come and take a look at this; pick up some catalogues and see how much it'll cost to get a new one … " She had taken to muttering, and Amelia, with a sigh, turned on her heel glumly and traipsed back to the kitchen, though not without sparing a quick glance towards the sky.

Upon reaching the kitchen, Amelia took her plate of pancakes and tipped them into the waste disposal unit. And then, for good measure, she did the same to Aunt Sharon's, too.

.~*~*~*~.

She spent the day shut up in her bedroom, alternately gazing for long periods of time and colouring in deep concentration at her little desk with the coloured pencils Santa had given her for Christmas. There was, of course, only one thing she could possibly draw now, and that was the Raggedy Doctor's blue box time machine. She went through three pieces of paper drawing it over and over in one afternoon, and using both sides, as well. She drew his blue box by itself against the white paper, she drew it in her garden, she drew it as she imagined it flying through space, with stars in the background. Although she wasn't very good at drawing people, she drew herself and the Doctor standing in front of it and smiling. She took great care to make his clothes as raggedy as they had been in reality, and in making his chin just as large.

Amelia knew her friends would probably be wanting to play with her, and at one point the doorbell rang, but it happened when Aunt Sharon went out to enquire about putting up a new shed and she didn't get up to answer it. The doorbell rang twice more before whoever had been ringing it gave up and left. Oh, well. It was probably just Rory. Amelia wished she could tell him about the Raggedy Doctor who'd come in the night. But she couldn't risk leaving her house in case he came from her. And she was sure she'd be gone by tomorrow morning.

At some point, Aunt Sharon came home with a man from the hardware shop to take a look at the splintered remains of the garden shed. Amelia could see them from her window. They talked for a while, but the man never came inside and the child couldn't be bothered to go outside.

What did she care about the new garden shed, after all? And why was Aunt Sharon so insistent on putting up a new one when they hadn't ever used it? All that had sat in there was the lawnmower, which was only ever used biannually and mostly sat there collecting dust and spiderwebs; some paint cans that could just as easily be stored in the cellar; and her bike, when she could be bothered to put it away in there. Most of the time her bike remained leaning against the wall of the house by the door, which was precisely where it was now.

Not that it mattered to her, because after some time the man from the hardware shop left, and Aunt Sharon went back inside. Amelia could hear the telly on downstairs. Good. Then her aunt wasn't bothering her, she thought as she reached for the pencil sharpener: the sharp point of the almost-new blue colouring pencil had worn down to little more than a nub.

In the early evening, unfortunately, she was called down to supper. Amelia had only eaten a few bites of breakfast, as well as one of the chocolate bars she kept hidden at the back of her sock drawer, purchased with pocket money. And she realised with a start she was hungry. So she traipsed downstairs in a sullen mood all over again, her cross feelings towards her aunt and the Raggedy Doctor's tardiness doubled since that morning. Supper consisted of macaroni and cheese and salad with dressing from the grocery store. The seven-year-old made a point of picking at her food.

At last, Aunt Sharon looked up in exasperation. "What's gotten into you, Amelia? You've been sulking in your room all day if I'm not mistaken. I thought you would have at least gone out to play with your friends."

"They didn't come," Amelia lied. "And it's too cold out to play. Besides, the Raggedy Doctor is coming."

A sigh. It was a bit of an impatient sigh. Amelia knew Aunt Sharon and her sighs all too well. "Oh, Amelia." It was followed by a strained smile. She opened her mouth, and then, as if suddenly thinking better, she closed it and got up momentarily to set the kettle on the stove. Upon returning to the table, she commented her niece should eat her supper like a good girl, and didn't say much over the rest of the meal. She started talking about the new garden shed, which Amelia instantly labelled in her mind as a boring grown-up topic and tuned her aunt out.

In truth, Sharon was worried. About her niece. Since adopting her, Amelia had been a rather sombre and withdrawn child, keeping only a couple of close friends, and even those bothered Sharon somewhat. There was that Mels girl, a product of the foster system who was forever getting herself into trouble at school; and Rory Williams from down the road, a mild-mannered boy with a slight stutter so tiny it was a wonder he wasn't whisked away at the slightest gust of wind. But they were both very nice children all the same (at least, the latter was; Mels Sharon wasn't certain about) and she tried not to worry herself too much about them. After all, friends were friends and despite her sombre nature her niece proved herself quite capable of being perfectly bossy and stubborn, and unlike her friend Rory, the child was anything but mild-mannered.

She'd been a bit worried, too, when Amelia had developed that obsession with the crack in her wall, saying that it made her room feel _wrong_ and at night she could hear _voices_ behind it. But Sharon had put that down to her niece's hyperactive imagination.

But this … well, this was different. When, this morning, Amelia had mentioned a _funny man_ who'd _come at night_ her mind went to all the natural places. Stories of madmen and children being snatched away had come to the front of her mind. But then Amelia had started talking about the blue box that said _Police_ and after that came fish fingers and custard and next Amelia had taken to chattering about a time machine. But Amelia seemed happy, infatuated with this "raggedy doctor," as she called him, not afraid. Despite her nerves, Sharon put it down to the girl's imagination again, inexplicably destroyed shed or no.

After all, such unusual behaviour (was it unusual?) in the child had to be excused. Given leeway, taking the circumstances into account.

It was probably just a phase, she told herself.

.~*~*~*~.

The suitcase remained outside. Amelia saw to that. Aunt Sharon was making her sleep in her bedroom tonight, even though the girl had protested bitterly. So she sitting up in bed in the nightie she hadn't even changed out of all day, the blankets tucked over her head. Balanced on her knees was another one of her storybooks; a favourite of hers she'd forgotten to pack, _The Legend of Pandora's Box_ , and in one hand she gripped a torch. While her ears were open for the sound of engines outside, she was enraptured enough in her book that she didn't hear the door open. So the seven-year-old startled when suddenly someone was tugging the blankets up and away.

Aunt Sharon sat on the edge of Amelia's bed, gently tugging the torch away and switching it off. "Time for you to go to bed, love. You have school tomorrow."

Amelia sighed grumpily, but she closed her book and set it down on the nightstand, lying down and tugging the covers up to her chest. She glowered up at her aunt, who in response patted one of her hands. "Did you do your homework this weekend?"

"Yes," she lied, and her aunt nodded absently.

"Good, good … now, get some sleep tonight, all right, Amelia? You be a good girl." An uneasy pause followed, then Aunt Sharon bent over to plant a hasty kiss on her niece's forehead. "Goodnight, Amelia." A smile, and she got up to exit the room, but she hovered in the doorway until Amelia gave an obligatory "goodnight" of her own, then she left, shutting the door behind her.

In bed, Amelia waited until she heard her aunt's footsteps going down the corridor to her own room. She waited until the hall light pouring in from under her door went out. And she waited a few more moments after that, until she was sure Aunt Sharon wasn't going to pop back in.

Then she kicked her blankets off, and crossed to her wee desk, dragged the chair over to the window. She fetched her pillow and placed it on the seat, and if she climbed up onto the chair and knelt on it then Amelia was high up enough to rest her elbows on the windowsill. That was how she spent the night, chin in hand and gaze fixed on some distant point in the sky, and it was how she stayed until she fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

.

 _Counting_

Author's Note: Some of you may recognise a line or two of dialogue stolen from the "little Amy, little Rory, and little Mels" montage from _Let's Kill Hitler._ Almost all of it _is_ mine, though.

* * *

Chapter Two

.~*~*~*~.

 _9 April 1996_

She woke up, blinking and bleary but not confused. Amelia remembered perfectly well, this time, why she had chosen to sit by the window at night, and why she had fallen asleep there. Holding back a yawn, she peered out the window, scanning desperately for any signs of the Doctor having arrived in the night.

There were none. Just the remains of the shed, and her little suitcase a ways back.

Amelia sighed. It was Tuesday today; the Easter holidays were through, and she was supposed to go to school. But _how_ could she possibly go to school when she had waiting to do? No, school was out of the question. She hoped, for a moment, that her Aunt Sharon had already left for work, and that she would get to stay home and wait all day. Besides, her homework wasn't done. She didn't move from her spot at the window, continuing to gaze out of it with eyes wide and unflinchingly hopeful. But she didn't get to wait for very long. Her aunt's cry sounded from downstairs just then, and her shoulders sagged. "Ame- _lia_! Where are you?! It's five to _eight_!"

She climbed down from her seat, sparing a hasty glance over her shoulder, her senses ready to hear the funny wheezing noise of that wonderful blue box's engines. (How a box could have _engines_ , she still didn't know; that was what she intended to find out as soon as she started travelling with the Raggedy Doctor). She traipsed downstairs glumly to find her aunt just leaving the kitchen, wearing her smart grey office clothes and her briefcase in hand. Amelia had always thought it was stupid for a secretary to carry a briefcase, but she'd never brought it up. Aunt Sharon stopped as her niece appeared at the bottom of the stairs. "Oh, good; there you are. Come on, love, hurry up. Your lunch money's on the table as it always is."

But Amelia stopped at the foot of the stairs, one small hand stubbornly clinging to the banister. "I can't go to school today."

A frown. "And why not? Are you ill?" She moved with a raised hand as if to feel Amelia's forehead, but the girl was sure to duck out of the way.

" _No_ ," she said pointedly. "I'm still waiting for the Raggedy Doctor." She scowled up at her aunt, then stalked passed her into the kitchen, oblivious to the look that was being cast to her back. She only stopped and turned at the fridge, where her shoulders sagged. "I _have_ to keep waiting, Aunt Sharon," she explained meekly. "So I can't go to school or else he'll think I've given up on him. And I wouldn't do that ever. The Doctor's my best friend."

Sharon sighed. She considered telling her niece to stop being silly; she was a big girl at seven but she'd had her fun daydreaming and this fantasy of hers couldn't prevent her from attending school, like she was supposed to. But then she recalled how cross Amelia had gotten when she'd told her that her imaginary friend wasn't real, and decided against it. Surely Amelia would get over it soon, just as she had that obsession with the little crack in her wall? "Doctor or no Doctor," she said guardedly, at long last. "You're still a schoolgirl and school's where you're supposed to go. And that's that, Amelia. Make yourself a nice breakfast and get dressed, love. I'm off to work now." She turned on her heel and made for the door, but halfway down the corridor she paused. "And don't even think of skiving off, Amelia, because you well know that I'll get a call from your headmistress if you do." It had happened before, a number of times, and Amelia did in fact know it well. Sharon gave a hasty smile to the nightie-clad child now standing in the doorway of the kitchen, then went out the door.

At the shutting of the door, Amelia waited, uncertain. She really couldn't risk skiving off, she realised that. She'd been hoping in vain that Aunt Sharon might finally come to her senses and acknowledge the existence of the Raggedy Doctor, and that she was going to wait for him for forever if she had to, and that she'd call the school to say Amelia was ill. But of course, that was never going to be the case. She should have known Aunt Sharon would keep on being _cy-ni-cal_.

Her sharp little mind weighed out her options. She only had a few of them, but they were all of them Very Important Life Choices, and so to ponder over them properly she sat down at the kitchen table, where her lunch money and pocket money, as promised sat under the salt shaker and the pepper mill.

She could skive off. She'd done this a couple of times before, once when there had been a new movie out and she and her friend Mels had slipped away during lunch break to see it. The movie had been good and fun, but things hadn't been very fun when she got home to find out Aunt Sharon had gotten a call from the headmistress and had even come home from work early over it for her worry; a rare occurrence. Also, she and Mels had wasted all their pocket money on popcorn and sodas and sweets, and as punishment she'd been deprived of allowance the next two weeks. The second time had been around Christmas when Amelia hadn't wanted to go to the Christmas carol sing-along because if you asked her, all the carols were boring. The only Christmas song she liked was _Frosty the Snowman_ , which they never sang at school sing-alongs because it wasn't so much about Christmas as it was winter. So she'd stayed at home all day. But Aunt Sharon had gotten a call for that, too. If she skived off she'd be in big trouble for it. So she _couldn't_ do that.

The second option came to her very briefly, for she dismissed it as soon as it came. It had been that she could call the school registry office herself and make herself sound grown-up; pretend to be Aunt Sharon and say, "Yes, Amelia Pond is sick today and she's not coming to school and I don't know when she'll be well again." But nobody was going to believe her, and even when she tried she discovered she was rubbish at making her voice sound grown-up. It sounded strange, like something was caught in her throat, and it kept making her giggle. So there was an option that could go right out the bloody window, as Aunt Sharon sometimes liked to say.

The last option was the one Amelia really didn't want to settle for, but it was the only other one and she'd have to. Go to school.

She was too miserable about the fact that this was her only choice, and that she'd accepted her sorry fate, to eat breakfast, so Amelia went upstairs and put on her uniform, then grabbed her backpack and stuffed the pocket money into the bag's little front compartment. Then she found a pencil and pad of paper on the little table by the hall, right near where the phone was on the wall, and scrawled a note in her very best handwriting.

 _Dear Doctor,  
I'm still waiting. I just have to go to stupid school so if you see this then you can wait inside and have fish custard if you like.  
\- Amelia Pond_

She finished it off with a smiley face, then ran outside and placed the note on her suitcase, weighing it down with a small stone so the wind couldn't claim it. She stood up and admired her quick thinking a moment, then hurried inside to put on her coat, mittens, hat. She shouldered her backpack and last of all stepped into her red Wellies before marching purposefully out the front door, leaving it unlocked, through the garden, and out the gate.

Having saved time without eating breakfast, Amelia walked to the end of the block and sat on the kerb in front of Rory's house, waiting for him to come out. They almost always walked to school together, and they used to walk to school with Mels, too, but now her foster parents made her take the school bus even though they lived fairly close by.

She waited for around fifteen minutes. She was doing a lot of waiting these days, it seemed. And she was willing to do a lot more if she had to, although she wished her waiting would end soon.

Rory came out of the house with his sandy hair messy but otherwise looking very tidy; his uniform shirt was tucked into his trousers and the lapels of his shirt were folded properly over his blazer. He wasn't wearing his coat for some reason, nor any of his other cold-weather garments. His backpack was worn properly, his arms slipped through both straps, and he looked pleased to see Amelia waiting for him. He hurried up to her and she stood up. "You'll never guess what happened to me!" she blurted without giving him a chance to even say hello.

Rory blinked up at her. "What, then?" he asked.

She grabbed his hand and began to tug him around the corner with her excitedly. "I'll tell you later when we meet up with Mels! But it's really amazing, Rory!" She stopped to hug him tightly, much to his bewilderment, then began to tug him along after her on the trek to school. "Why aren't you wearing your coat?" she asked him suddenly.

"Because, it's warm out," Rory said reasonably, as ever. "I was wondering why you were wearing yours."

"It's not warm," Amelia responded, rolling her eyes, even as she began to feel the heat now that he mentioned it. The weather was much improving, and the sun was out, although the sky was obscured by the occasional cloud that hung in the blue like semicolons, signalling of more to come.

"Well," Rory said defensively, "I-I think it is." His slight stammer slipped into his voice, then back out. "What's happened to you that's so amazing, then?"

Amelia rolled her eyes at him impatiently. For a (second)-best friend, Rory was more than a bit wet. "I _told_ you. I'll tell you when we meet up with Mels." And she tugged at his arm a little harder and quickened her pace, knowing but not really caring that she probably wasn't being very nice, especially since Rory was so much smaller than she was; he was running and stumbling to keep up lest his arm be ripped from its socket.

It was a short ten-minute walk to school, and it would be another ten minutes after that until school started. Amelia had let go of Rory's arm along the way, and he trailed along behind her the rest of the walk, rubbing at his shoulder, which made her feel a bit guilty. But her guilt went right out of her the moment she spied Mels on the playground; her other (now second)-best friend swinging herself very high on the swings, her short legs pumping furiously and her hands on her lap instead of gripping the chains either side of her. Amelia went running up to Mels, Rory struggling to keep up behind at her tail, and waved her hands wildly until her friend leaped down from the swing onto the rubber mulch ground, her pigtails bouncing about her shoulders.

It often seemed strange to everyone else that Rory should be friends with Amelia and Mels, two girls who were remarkably similar in just about every way, except that Mels was bolder than Amelia, got into trouble a lot more often, and even had the guts to stand up to teachers. The two of them even shared the fact that they didn't have and couldn't remember their parents. And then, completing their trio was the meek, tiny Rory Williams who would probably rather get his head stuffed down a toilet than break any of the school rules. But Mels had taken a liking to him in kindergarten and ever since she dared Amelia to kiss him on the cheek in the schoolyard, he'd somehow become their dear friend.

Even if he _could_ get infuriatingly dull.

Once Rory caught up to them, Amelia tugged them both other to sit on the wooden edge of the sand-pit. There, she eagerly began her tale with the same words she'd originally said to Rory: "You'll never guess what's happened to me! But it's really amazing, I promise." From here she surged into an animated retelling of what had happened night before last, starting right from when the Raggedy Doctor had landed in her garden to when he took off with a promise to return in five minutes and take her with him on all his wonderful adventures to how she'd spent all of yesterday and last night waiting for him. She remained true to every detail, and finished just as the bell rang.

Amelia, Mels, and Rory picked up their bags and crossed the schoolyard to queue up outside with the rest of the Year Twos to be let in to the school building. The reactions she received were mixed. Mels had drunken in every word Amelia said with wide eyes; Rory bit his lip and looked sceptical. Amelia wheeled on him. "You don't believe me?" she demanded, more distressed than anything else.

Rory shrugged. "I dunno."

Because that was just the same as a _no_ , Amelia turned on Mels. "What about you?"

Mels paused for a moment, considering, then nodded firmly. "Yes. I do."

Which was how Amelia decided she liked Mels better than Rory for the day.

.~*~*~*~.

The school day passed long and slowly for Amelia Pond. She got a scolding for not having done her homework, and another few for not paying attention during her lessons — namely Maths, History, and Geography. She tried very hard to pay attention during English, because she actually liked reading and writing, but even then her mind drifted.

She daydreamed, and stared absently out the classroom window as though the Doctor's blue box would show up for her at school, until one of her teachers had to go as far as to tap their ruler on her desk to bring her back to Earth.

During P.E. concentration was a little easier to maintain; she had to focus to run laps around the gymnasium and turn somersaults around on the mats that had been set up in the middle of the room and jump rope.

But it was in Art that Amelia found her daydreaming and distant thoughts paid off, because of course in basic Year Two art there weren't any real art projects; the teacher set them loose with the supplies from the cupboard spread out on the wall-hugging counter before disappearing behind a tabloid, looking up every so often to be sure her charge weren't killing each other with the Magic Markers. Amelia liked the Art room better than any room in the school. There were three or so of them, all set up next to one another in the basement, and they had high ceilings and counters that were always covered in dried paint and glitter glue. She liked the way it smelled of paint and clay and all kinds of things, all the time, and best of all she liked the high desks and the tall stools she had to literally climb onto so as to meet the height of the desk.

Today, she clambered up onto a stool in a corner with Mels and Rory on either side of her, perched on its edge with her legs dangling a significant height above the floor. She had fetched a large piece of paper and a bin full of crayons and coloured pencils and Magic Markers. There wasn't really any question as to whatever she would draw today.

.~*~*~*~.

She invited Mels and Rory over to play after school (assuming, naturally, that the Doctor hadn't arrived yet, if he had then the play date was absolutely cancelled), but neither of them could because Mels' foster mum said "no, not today" and Rory was being dragged along to some kind of conference in Leicester by the orders of his dad. But they still got to walk home together, and Mels proved herself to be a truly worthy friend because she had an explosion of questions to ask of Amelia about the Raggedy Doctor, a rarity because Mels usually wasn't chatty unless she was bossing people about.

"But why do you call him _raggedy_? What's so raggedy about him?"

"'Cause his clothes were all torn up, of course, and too small for him, too, I think. He dressed funny, but I already told you that. I've never seen anyone wear a shirt and tie and suit pants with trainers before," Amelia mused.

Mels interrupted. "Is he hot?"

"No, he's funny."

Now it was Rory's turn to ask a question, hurrying to keep up with the girls' faster pace. The woes of being small for one's age. "But," he asked, his curiosity apparently piqued despite his earlier doubtfulness, and that made Amelia's crosser feelings fade away a little, "how can he travel in time?"

"Because he's got a time machine, stupid!"

Rory frowned. "Oh."

Mels grabbed Amelia's arm, looking excited. "Do you think," she said breathlessly, "do you think he's gonna be there when you get to your house?"

Amelia glanced heavenward, squinting against the sun that still peeped through the grey clouds overhead. "I _hope_ so," she answered. "But I don't know. I mean, he's already real late, and I guess he's _got_ to get here _sometime_." She turned on her friend. "You could come over and see with me," she offered. "Just for a second."

Mels' face lit up. "Okay!"

The girls clasped hands and ran the rest of the way, giggling in simple childish joy and in anticipation, ignoring Rory's distressed high-pitched cries of "Wait! Wait for me!" as they ran.

Except when they got to Amelia's house, everything was as it had been: her suitcase still lying on its side in the grass, and the note on top of it weighed down by a stone, the splintered ruins of the garden shed, which had stopped smoking finally. Rory caught up with the girls, just in time to see Amelia's shoulders sag and to see her march through her garden and into her house, slamming the front door in her wake, without saying goodbye.

He looked uncertainly at Mels. "Now what?" He wasn't all that fond of making decisions, and since Mels was very fond of making them, their friendship worked quite nicely.

Mels hesitated. "I guess we go home," she said, and she sounded almost as disappointed as Amelia. "Else my foster mum'll kill me." Then it was her turn to jog off down the street in the direction of her own. Rory hovered outside Amelia's front garden gate and watched her go, raising a hand in fleeting farewell.

.~*~*~*~.

 _Early May, 1996_

Nearly a month of halcyon days passed, in which Amelia waited devoutly by the window or out in the garden almost every night, or in as much free time as she could spare. She went through several packages of printing paper and boxes of crayons drawing the Raggedy Doctor's time machine; or herself standing with him, often holding his hand. At school in Art class, on one of those rare occasions they had a lesson and liberal assignment, they learned how to make papier-mâché figures. What else was she to make but the Raggedy Doctor? It wasn't a very good doll, and she couldn't get his big, silly chin right, but once the paint dried and they were allowed to bring their seven-year-old creations home, the doll made a home on her desk, right beside her box of coloured pencils.

Better still, she had taken to saving up her pocket money — a respectable ₤15 a week, and a wealthy sum for a seven-year-old — to pay the hobby woodworker to make her her very own replica of the Raggedy Doctor's time machine, that lovely box, a little larger than a phone booth in what Amelia now considered to be the most beautiful shade of blue in all the world. She described it to him in keen detail; the windows at the top and the small squares going down the sides and where the doors were and everything. Most importantly, of course, the words at top of the time machine: _Police Public Call Box_. To Amelia's surprise however, when she arrived at the local little carpenter's stand, she didn't have to go into nearly as much detail as she'd anticipated.

"Ohh, you must mean those old police boxes that used to be around in the 1960s," the woodworker had said, nodding and smiling. "I'm surprised a girl your age would know about those. You're how old, kid, eight? Nine?"

"Seven," Amelia, who was a little tall for her age, had replied. "But it's not a _police box_ ; it's a _time machine_."

"Seven, eh? Even more impressive," said the woodworker, nodding absently and apparently not having heard her argument. "Sure, I could make one of those for you. That'd be twenty quid, if you've got it."

After stubbornly confirming that the woodworker was familiar with _each and every detail_ of the outside of the Raggedy Doctor's time machine, she had handed him four fivers, which the woodworker put into the register. He had smiled at Amelia. "Do you know your phone number so I can ring your house when it's finished?"

Amelia had had to fight the urge to roll her eyes. _Of course_ she knew her phone number. She wasn't a baby. But she had dutifully recited it off by heart for the woodworker to jot down, and then she'd skipped all the way home. She'd received the call about her custom-made miniature "police box" less than a week later, thankfully when Aunt Sharon was away, and as it had been a Saturday, the seven-year-old had left the house immediately, skipping all the way to the carpenter's and then, upon receiving her replica, which looked just like the Doctor's time machine except less battered, had skipped all the way back home.

Now the time machine sat on her desk next to her papier-mâché doll; and she'd proudly shown it to Mels and Rory, both of whom had been very impressed. Mels especially.

All through April, though, Amelia waited, and no signs of the Raggedy Doctor appeared for her. She'd been forced to haul in her suitcase, eventually, when her aunt finally caught sight of it as the construction of the new garden shed began. And while she still clung to her hope, despair had begun to grab at her heart.

Questions tossed and turned in her mind all day and all night, often keeping her up late tossing and turning. Simple yet vastly complicated questions like, _why was he so late? Why hadn't he come for her yet? He'd promised, and she'd trusted him, so why, then, wasn't he here yet? Had she somehow missed him? Had the Doctor lied to her?_ She dismissed that last one, because she refused to believe her Raggedy Doctor would ever be anything but the epitome of honesty with her, but it was unfortunately replaced by an ever greater concern: _if he hadn't lied, which he wouldn't ever do anyway, then had something happened to him? Was he hurt? Had he been kidnapped by hostile aliens in outer space? Had his time machine exploded, leaving him_ unable _to come for her? Was he dead?_

Sharon Pond, meanwhile, was growing all the more concerned. Her niece may have been disturbingly obsessed with that crack in her wall — which really _had_ mysteriously disappeared — but this was a whole new level. Never before had her charge ever fallen into such despairing obsession. This imaginary friend of hers consumed Amelia's every thought, and yes, it was worrisome. She'd not only told her friends about her "Raggedy Doctor," but all her fellow schoolchildren as well. She didn't invite her two friends over as often as she used to, nor did she go over to their houses to play very much, and when she did, it seemed all she and her friends did was either play Raggedy Doctor or talk about the man. Many a time had Sharon already been forced to drag Amelia back into the house late at night, or when it was raining.

And even when she did manage to coax or haul her young niece back inside, there was no stopping her from rushing to the window and pressing her nose to the glass, where she would spend eternities simply staring skyward with a heartbreaking _hope_ that refused to be crushed no matter what.

This was no fantasy, not Amelia's runaway imagination at work again. No, this was something far beyond that.

This was something Sharon was beginning to think was out of her hands.

.~*~*~*~.

And Amelia, for her part, continued to hope. She didn't have much else to do, so she hoped, and believed, and for her, it was enough. She knew that her Raggedy Doctor was real, and that he _would_ come for her, and she wasn't willing to listen to anyone tried to tell her otherwise. Some of the other schoolchildren teased her about it all, but she didn't care, because she had Mels and sort of had Rory supporting her. They were always willing to play Raggedy Doctor when they came over to play, or when she went to one of their houses to play, which was always fun. They made his time machine fly around the room and practised mimicking the funny wheezing noise the box made; something none of them were very good at and their poor attempts always made them double over in giggles.

But when she was alone, she would sit by the window, waiting, and counting the days until that enigmatic blue box finally came for her.

It never did.

But that didn't mean she was going to stop waiting anytime soon.


	3. Chapter 3

.

 _Counting_

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, I'm back. I am very, very sorry that it took me so horribly long to update. Under ordinary circumstances this would be inexcusable but I have an excuse so hopefully you all won't kill me: I was on holiday with next to no computer access. If you're reading this, then thanks for sticking around and not giving up on me, and I hope this third chapter doesn't fail to please.

* * *

Chapter Three

.~*~*~*~.

 _9 May 1996_

"Got any spare change?" Mels asked, palm already extended.

The trio was walking home from school, just as they did every day. After nearly a week of perpetual rainfall, the mid-spring sky was bright and clear, boasting a beaming sun and unmarred by clouds. It wasn't the sort of day any child under the age of twelve in their right mind would want to waste, and Mels and Rory were already planning to ask their parents permission to play out in the street together until suppertime. And mingling with the laughter and the joyful shouts of the children already playing was the noise that gathered children far and wide to meet its source without fail: the jingle of the ice cream van.

Amelia thrust her hand into her pocket but only came up with enough money to buy one ice cream for herself, and she shrugged at Mels, shaking her head apologetically. Instantly Mels turned to Rory, who scrutinised her with a frown. "I thought you got allowance."

She gave a dramatic sigh. "Oh, I _did_ , until I had it withdrawn for the next two weeks . Headmistress called two days ago about that fight I got into, don't you remember? Come on, Rory, please." The ice cream van's music was getting louder and the children playing were now running to their homes to ask for money.

Rory looked reluctant; this was, after all, _his_ allowance, and if he gave money to Mels he wasn't counting on getting it back. But she was his friend, so just as the ice cream van rounded the corner he dropped 50p into Mels' expectant palm, enough to buy one ice cream cone. She closed her fist around it, beaming and victorious.

They bought their ice creams and while waiting for her friends to go and get permission to play, Amelia sat herself on the kerb, licking her treat contentedly. And when Mels and Rory came running back outside — poor Rory had to hurry the entire two and a half blocks back to the agreed-upon meeting place just outside Mels' house — they all sat there on the kerb together to finish what was left of their ice creams before joining in on a match of neighbourhood football. They played until nearly seven o'clock, which was when Mels' foster mum called her in and Amelia and Rory headed home.

The house was empty when Amelia got there; it usually was at this hour. Amelia walked down the garden path to the front door, glancing over at the garden shed as she passed it. It was now in the process of being re-built. All that was left to do at this stage was paint it and put the roof on. Aunt Sharon had told Amelia she could pick the colour if she liked. She'd almost chosen a blue out of the catalogue, a shade was available almost the exact colour of the Raggedy Doctor's time machine. But then she'd realised that every other time she looked out the window her heart would surge a moment until she realised it was just the stupid old shed. At least, early on. So after flipping through the catalogue Amelia had looked up and indifferently pointed to the most boring shade of brown available.

Once inside she made herself a frozen Shepherd's pie in the microwave and grabbed an orange and a candy bar. She ate her supper in front of the telly. Aunt Sharon came in just as she was unwrapping her dessert. Following the sounds of the telly, she came up behind Amelia and put her arms around her in a hasty hug. Amelia, for her part, glanced up at her aunt and took a bite of her candy bar.

Aunt Sharon released her and patted her once on the head. "What are you watching there?"

"Cartoons," Amelia answered stoutly without taking her eyes from the screen.

"All right." Aunt Sharon began to make her way back out to the corridor. "But not too much longer, Amelia, hmm? To bed soon."

"Yes, Aunt Sharon," Amelia drilled out automatically, and took another bite out of her candy bar.

She went to bed an hour later, only because Aunt Sharon shooed her out of the sitting room to watch one of her soap dramas. Amelia trekked upstairs, brushed her teeth, and changed into her pyjamas, leaving her uniform in a heap on her desk chair. It had been a perfectly good day, but on her calendar she marked it, before putting out the light, as one more day of waiting.

.~*~*~*~.

 _10 May 1996_

Because it was Friday (no school tomorrow), she was invited over to Rory's to play. Mels was denied permission due to the fight she'd gotten into, but she insisted it was all right because she got the impression Rory's mum and dad didn't like her all that much anyway. So it was just Amelia and Rory.

His daddy was at work but his mummy was home, and she had milk and crackers with cheese ready for both children. The two of them talked about what they were going to play over the welcome snack. It was just as Rory's mummy went to step outside and chat with a friend that Amelia came up with an idea, as most of the best ones were hers. Interrupting Rory as he was about to rather ironically suggest they play doctor-and-patient, she declared, "Let's play dress-up."

He protested instantly. "But that's a _girl's_ game!"

She pushed out her chair and stood, a gleam in her eye. "We're going to play dress-up differently. A special kind. Now come on!" Amelia moved to tug him up, too.

"But we haven't finished our snack yet," Rory insisted, looking at his plate. "Please can't we play dress-up after?"

His pleas and protests did nothing to deter Amelia, who went ahead and pulled him to his feet and began to tug him along behind her up the stairs and to the master bedroom, him squirming slightly all along the way. "Don't worry," she said in a superior tone. "We can have a _better_ snack after. And I _told_ you, silly, it's a different kind of dress-up." She opened the door to the master bedroom, tugged Rory in with her, and then shut the door behind them. They probably weren't supposed to be playing in here, and she didn't want to get in trouble and not ever be invited over to play again. So she let Rory go and he stood nervously by the door, his ear to it. Amelia opened the doors to the wardrobe. It was one of those very imposing, old-fashioned kinds of wardrobes, the kind that you'd expect to lead to Narnia.

Amelia liked the wardrobe. It smelled of cedar chips and mothballs, a curious aroma she couldn't decide for certain if she liked or not. And it was very neat and tidy, with his mummy's clothes all on the right side and his daddy's all on the left. She instantly began to rifle through these, examining all the shirts, ties, and trousers. Rory's dad didn't have a fancy office job, so her options were limited; most of the clothes were T-shirts and baggy jeans.

"What are you doing?" Rory asked from his spot by the door.

Amelia grabbed a tie and tossed it onto the bed. "Looking for clothes for you like the Raggedy Doctor's," she replied. "They're not all _just_ like his though … ooh, but this shirt is almost the same." She held out the light blue collared shirt and threw it onto the bed.

It took her a while to settle on trousers. Rory's dad didn't seem to have any brown pinstriped trousers like the Doctor's, forcing her to finally settle on the closest pair she could find: some brown corduroys. She handed all the clothes to a squirming Rory.

"Put the clothes on," she instructed him. He merely stared at her with wide grey eyes. "I'll turn around," she added quickly, giving him her back. She didn't want to see any boys in just their pants. She waited as patiently as she could, but she had to twiddle her thumbs. She could hear Rory dressing behind her, but he was taking an awfully long time. Her patience thinned. "Are you dressed yet?" she demanded.

"No," said Rory, and she sighed dramatically. Finally she heard him say, "Okay."

She deemed it safe to turn around and did so. Across the room, she saw Rory, or rather, Rory's head. The rest of him was hidden completely by the oversized clothes. The hem of his daddy's shirt reached his knees and the sleeves were so big and long Amelia couldn't even see the shape of his skinny little arms inside of them. And the trousers were a whole matter all on their own. Amelia held back a giggle at the sight of him as she stepped closer, and Rory looked at her in unsuppressed misery. "Well," Amelia said at last, "come on, then." She led him down to the kitchen, where she dug through the fridge and was thrilled to find both fish fingers and custard. The custard was a different brand than the Raggedy Doctor had eaten, but no matter.

Rory's mummy walked in just as the children were taking the fish fingers out of the microwave. A bowl of custard already sat on the table. "And what are you two doing here?"

"Making fish fingers and custard," Amelia explained importantly.

She chuckled warmly, ruffling Rory's sandy hair. " _Ohh_ , yes, that's right," she said. "That's what that imaginary friend of yours liked to eat, wasn't it, Amelia?"

"The Doctor's not imaginary!" she said hotly. "He's for real."

But Rory's mummy just smiled in that special and infuriating way grown-ups had. Amelia could practise for a thousand million hours and never master such a smile. Well, not unless she grew up too. Not that she was going to let such a horrific fate ever befall her. "I see you were playing dress-up," Rory's mummy was saying. She was changing the subject, but at least she wasn't downright arguing Amelia's statement like Aunt Sharon did, so she didn't mind so much.

"Rory's dressing up as the Doctor," Amelia explained.

"I see. And what about you, Amelia? Who are you dressing up as?"

Amelia sat down at the table. "The Doctor is coming to take me in his time machine," she said, "and I'm going to go with him when he comes finally. Rory's dressing up as him, and I'm already me."

.~*~*~*~.

She was asked to stay for supper, which was nice because she liked Rory's parents and his mummy was the best cook she knew in the whole world. Tonight she had made a curried salad with walnuts in it, and spaghetti with _homemade_ tomato sauce and meatballs. Much better than the takeaway meals they sometimes got and way better than microwave food and school cafeteria lunches.

After supper, though, it was time for Amelia to go home. She only lived down the street but Rory walked to the sidewalk with her. "Thanks," she blurted.

"What for?"

She thought for a moment. "For being my Raggedy Doctor for me," she replied. Amelia really was grateful too, even if she hadn't been able to make the clothes absolutely right but oh well because the trousers had been completely wrong anyway.

"Oh," said Rory, blinking, and Amelia, with a sudden inexplicable motivation, expressed her total gratitude by leaning over and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

.~*~*~*~.

It was almost midnight, but Amelia Pond was wide awake. She was sitting by her window, alternately staring out of it or reading from her book of fairy tales by torchlight. Mostly she looked out the window. She was thinking about all the stories and their recurring themes of princesses waiting for their princes and how she was sort of like them, except not quite because the Raggedy Doctor was a thousand million times better than Prince Charming.

Also, Prince Charming was supposed to be handsome, and the Raggedy Doctor wasn't handsome, he was just funny.

But she didn't _want_ to be like a princess in a fairy tale. Their stories weren't as good as hers.

Sometimes the princesses waited for years. Amelia didn't want to wait that long. She wanted her Doctor to hurry up for her already.

 _Ohh, that's a brilliant name. "Amelia Pond." Like a name in a fairy tale._

She didn't want some old fairy tale. So that was when Amelia Pond slammed her big book shut, and made a very Important Life Decision.

.~*~*~*~.

 _11 May 1996_

"I don't want to be called Amelia anymore," she announced the next morning at breakfast.

She was sitting at the kitchen table while Aunt Sharon made scrambled eggs. She was already dressed for work but had enough time some Saturdays to make a quick bacon-and-eggs breakfast and eat it with her niece before heading off to work.

"Oh?" Aunt Sharon asked. "And what's the matter with Amelia?"

"It's a stupid name."

"I see. So what is it you'd like to be called, then?" Aunt Sharon began to serve the eggs on the plates besides the bacon.

"Amy." She played absent-mindedly with the pepper mill.

Aunt Sharon set the plates down, seating herself across from her niece. "If that's what you want to be called, then." She smiled pleasantly. "And do you have any big plans for today, then?"

The newly-called Amy shrugged and took a bite of eggs, and Sharon felt her heart sink. She had an unpleasant feeling she already knew what the day was going to be like for her niece.

.~*~*~*~.

 _13 June 1996_

Nighttime.

It thrummed in the space around her; darkness beating in her ears. Amy sat up quickly but not abruptly, looking around the room and blinking like a mole in new daylight, her eyes adjusting. Before long fuzzy dark shapes began to form in the empty blackness, until even those cleared into things identifiable and distinguishable. After this, Amy crawled out of bed and went to the window. By default.

The dream had been like any other before it — the wonderful Doctor had come for her in his blue box, and she'd gone with him and in this dream Rory had even come along for a taste of their adventuring — but it left her feeling differently, somehow. More …

Her little heart beat quickly and anxiously in her chest, as if trying to escape the ribcage that contained it.

A cage was a cage, after all.

Amy would never know what possessed her to do what she did next, but what counted was that she did it and it probably set the stage for the moderately turbulent events that followed. She snatched up her torch and her suitcase, which was under her bed and hadn't been unpacked yet (with the exception of her teddy), even though Aunt Sharon had made her bring it in. She put on her red housecoat and tucked the model of the Doctor's time machine into one pocket.

And so it was. With her suitcase in one hand and her torch in the other, and a wee version of the blue box she hoped to see in her pocket, Amy made her way to the garden. She navigated the house by the bouncing beam of her torch, its familiar geography a different sort of realm by night.

Then, once in the garden, right in front of the new shed, Amy perched on her suitcase, miniature time machine clutched in small hands, and waited.

In a way she probably looked a lot like she did when she first started waiting — same suitcase, same place in the garden, same housecoat. Except she was holding the blue box in her hands, and she wasn't wearing her red-and-white nightie but her pink pyjamas with the kittens on them. She sat a little less straighter than she had been the first night of waiting; her eyes didn't quite hold the same confident gleam.

She waited a long time, though precisely how long could not be said. But long enough that she began to see the first few rays of light. They did not deter her in the slightest. She would wait as long as she had to; she'd been waiting over two months. Surely … surely the Doctor would come for her very soon now, maybe even in a few minutes, and she had every intention of sitting right here until he did.

What she didn't count on was her Aunt Sharon waking up at dawn with a parched throat, and deciding to get up for a glass of water. This resulted in her going down to the kitchen for it. She took a glass from the cupboard and turned on the tap, filled it up. While drinking she leaned against the counter, looking absently out the window, and she caught sight of her niece sitting out in the garden. Something she should _not_ have been doing at the crack of dawn. Sharon gave a sort of sigh as she set the glass down on the counter and made for the door, stopping only to step into a pair of sandals and to grab and shrug on her dressing gown as she went outside.

Amy didn't hear the front door open and shut; her gaze was fixed skyward and her mind was elsewhere. What she did eventually hear were footsteps coming up the path. Her heart surged; her mind cried _Doctor!_ , and she spun around with something of pathetic hope.

But of course it wasn't her Doctor, it wasn't her Raggedy Man come for her at long last. It was just Aunt Sharon coming to her and wrapping herself in her navy dressing gown. Amy just stared at her, crumpling into herself. The model time machine dropped to the earth. "What are you doing out here, Amy, love?" she heard Aunt Sharon saying. "What are you doing out here so early, hmm?"

Amy didn't answer.

Her aunt came to crouch in front of her, taking Amy's small hands in her own in a gesture of rare and halting affection. Reluctantly Amy met her gaze. "Amy," Aunt Sharon said again, using the name to fill the unidentifiable void between them with a different kind of emptiness, of a variety that was desperate and uncertain, "sweet pea. Come on inside, now."

"I can't," Amy spoke up calmly, matter-of-factly.

"And why not?" Sharon felt her heart sink. She knew what her young niece's answer was going to be, and was unsurprised when it came again in that same tone; flat, firm, and faithful:

"I'm waiting for the Raggedy Doctor, Aunt Sharon. He's coming for me soon and I've got to be there when he gets here."

Sharon considered giving her usual speech, the kind that went along the lines of, _Now, Amy, love; you know what's make-believe and what's not. You're a big, smart girl …_ She nearly did. But something stopped her, and instead she let go of Amy's hand and patted her hair. "You can wait just as well inside. Come on in and get more sleep like the growing girl you are, hmm? Let's go, Amy, love."

From here it took a terribly great deal of coaxing, but it finally worked. Looking properly miserable and more than a little crushed, Amy let Aunt Sharon lead her into the house and put her to bed.

The suitcase and torch stayed in the garden. The box went with Amy.

It was after the girl had been put to bed that Sharon made for the kitchen and put the kettle on. While she waited for the water to boil she sat at the table with her hands at her temples. Once her water was ready she fixed her cuppa, making it twice as strong as usual and putting in half as much sugar and milk. Then, mug in hand, she thumbed through the phonebook until she found a promising result, and underlined it. Sharon finally proceeded into the corridor, carrying the phonebook with her. She took the phone off the hook, glanced down at the phonebook, and dialled the number underlined there.


	4. Chapter 4

.  
 _Counting_

* * *

Chapter Four

.~*~*~*~.

 _16 June 1996_

Aunt Sharon was in the kitchen by the time Amy woke up. She thought this to be very strange, because Aunt Sharon was normally at work by this hour, and was definitely not usually found in the kitchen making French toast.

French toast! It was Amy's absolute favourite, and Aunt Sharon usually only made it on the specialest of special occasions. Which Amy very quickly took to be a clue that something important was happening. She wasn't sure she liked the looks of it. Her suspicion mounted as she slowly pulled out her chair. "Why aren't you at work, Aunt Sharon?" she asked slowly.

Aunt Sharon turned and smiled. It was a funny smile. Shaky. "I'm taking the day off," she said. "Look, I'm making your favourite for breakfast, sweetheart — French toast."

Amy sat down. Her aunt was just being evasive. _Ev-as-ive_. "Why?"

Two slices of French toast were scraped onto her plate, then a cup of vanilla yoghurt was passed her way. Next Aunt Sharon served herself and sat down before answering. "Well … we're doing something a little different today, Amy, love. We're going to Leicester."

Leicester? They'd never been to Leicester out of the blue like that. They only ever went once a year, to visit the fairground that came each August, but August was a long way away. And once Amy had been on a school trip to the museum, but that was all. Leicester was, after all, a whole hour's drive away. So besides that, she had never even left Leadworth since moving there from Inverness. So Amy, with typical attitude, asked shortly again, "Why?"

Aunt Sharon replied after sipping her tea. "Oh, I just have an appointment. Maybe after we could go to the big cinema there. They have one that's still showing _Toy Story_ ; I looked it up in the paper. You liked that movie, didn't you?" She smiled again and took a second long swig of tea.

Amy, who happened to be convinced that _Toy Story_ was the greatest movie of all time, wasn't so easily bought. She might have been just seven, but she was sharp of mind and had become fiercely independent in her short life. She decided she would not touch her breakfast (which, like the promise to see _Toy Story_ , appeared to be a bribery of some sort) until she got some answers. So she asked, "What appointment?"

"Just to … talk with someone. They really want to meet you."

"You're going all the way to Leicester to _talk with someone_? With who?"

"Never you mind, Amy, love." A strained smile, the third one in the course of this meal. "Don't you want to eat your breakfast?"

Which was when Amy gave up. She looked back down at her French toast, and a battle took place in her mind: which would win out, her stubbornness or her hunger? It was something of a truce in the end. She ate the yoghurt and drank the apple juice, but she left the French toast. Perhaps Aunt Sharon made note of what this meant, because she pursed her lips but she didn't say anything.

Breakfast took time to get through at any rate. Aunt Sharon was a slow eater when she wasn't in a rush to get to work, and she took longer still to sip her tea. Amy was relieved when she was excused from the table to go and get dressed. "Put something nice on, why don't you, Amy, love? One of your nice little summer dresses, maybe, and a barrette for your hair. Remember those barrettes you were collecting from the penny store around Christmas? Those are very nice, and you have a fortune of them, don't you? Off you pop, sweet pea."

So Amy went ahead and put on her lilac summer dress and she brushed her hair and put in the yellow butterfly barrette from the penny store. After that she played with her brand-new Doctor doll and the similar rag doll of herself she'd spent weeks on in Art class with much aid from the teacher until Aunt Sharon shouted it was time to go.

And that was how Amy Pond found herself strapped into the backseat of Aunt Sharon's blue Vauxhall, with her young mind bracing itself for whatever was to come.

.~*~*~*~.

The drive to Leicester was long and dull and took almost twice as long as it should have dine: there'd been a bad traffic accident on the motorway. Amy crossed her fingers in the hope that it would make them late for the appointment, but as they were pulling off the motorway at the exit for Leicester, Aunt Sharon said loftily, "Well, at least we left very early, so we shouldn't be late."

Amy privately groaned.

They kept driving for a short while until Aunt Sharon pulled up in the car park of an ugly grey building next to a laundrette that had seen better days. Amy unbuckled her seatbelt and slowly climbed out of the car. She walked side-by-side with Aunt Sharon through the building's front doors, across the empty lobby, and into the lift, which they rode to the 5th floor. Then down a long, grey-carpeted corridor to a door at its far end on the right. A small plaque on the wall read in stern text:

 _Dr Fiona R Davis_  
 _YOUTH PSYCHIATRIST AND SPECIALIST_

Whatever that meant.

.~*~*~*~.

On the other side of the door Amy found a waiting room. It looked a lot like the waiting room at the dentist's: plastic chairs going all around the walls; coffee tables in the corners scattered with magazines, tabloids, and picture books; a bored-looking receptionist behind the counter on the far side of the room; a small table with a collection of cheap toys, plus a few Barbies and Hot Wheels; posters and prints of paintings on the walls.

Amy sat down on one of the plastic chairs and found a beat-up _Where's Wally?_ While Aunt Sharon checked in. Then her aunt joined her and leafed through the latest _Elle_ while Amy busied herself in hunting for Wally  & co. She did not ask her aunt why they were here again, though all her thought was focused on the matter, and she wondered how long it would be before she found out. Out of the corner of her eye she noted that Aunt Sharon was looking at her strangely again — almost _sadly_ and _worriedly_. At some point she put a hand on Amy's shoulder. "Sweetheart — "

For her part, Amy batted the offending hand away without lifting her eyes from her book.

She had worked her way through two sections when she heard the receptionist say, "Amelia Pond?" Her head and Aunt Sharon's went up in tandem.

The receptionist was standing, and pointing at a door at his right hand. "Just through there, if you please," he droned, and Amy stood up slowly, putting the book back on the coffee table. She crossed the room with small steps; all of a sudden she was afraid. Not the nerves that came whenever she visited the dentist, when she worried too late that she hadn't been brushing her teeth enough and would have a mouthful of cavities (which hadn't yet happened); no, it was a grim kind of fear. She was certain that she was not going to like whatever was to come behind that door, and was sure she wouldn't like whoever it was Aunt Sharon had made her appointment with.

She reached the door.

Felt very small all of a sudden.

Felt her seven short years.

Aunt Sharon was behind her, she realised. A hand on her shoulder, steering her but not pushing her to go quickly. Aunt Sharon stepped past Amy to open the door, and they stepped past the threshold into the room behind it.

It was an office, the office, Amy supposed, of Dr Fiona R Davis. She was a woman of sixty or so, sitting behind her big desk and appraising the girl and her aunt over the rims of her glasses as they entered the room. She bid them sit down with a gesture. Aunt Sharon shut the door and made for the desk, but Amy hovered near the exit.

The office was a study in bland. Grey carpeting on the floor. A window overlooking the car park. A small cupboard. A grey, metal filing cabinet with a potted cactus on top of it. Soothing, vanilla-coloured walls. There were pictures on them, just children's drawings in crayon and pencil. The centrepiece of the room was Dr Davis' big desk. She was seated in a big swivel chair behind it and facing her were two small, cheap armchairs, one of which was now occupied by Aunt Sharon. It reminded Amy of the headmistresses' office, in a way. It was just as uninviting a room, except that it was pretending to be and failing miserably at fooling anyone, which was even worse.

"Don't you want to sit down, Amelia?" asked Dr Davis. Her tone was warmer than Amy had expected it to be, causing her to startle, then relax. Warm tone or no, it didn't make her like Dr Davis any better, but Aunt Sharon was beckoning her to come sit, too, so Amy nodded slowly and climbed into the armchair. Her feet didn't quite reach the floor unless she sat uncomfortably on the very edge of the seat, leaning forwards, so she let them dangle. She put on her very best poker face.

"How are you doing today, Amelia?" asked Dr Davis. She smiled.

Amy glanced over at Aunt Sharon, who was sitting stiffly in her armchair; she was clutching the purse in her lap so tightly her knuckles were white. She waited for her aunt to say something, but she didn't, so Amy turned back to Dr Davis. "Amy," she said flatly.

"Oh, I'm very sorry," said Dr Davis. "I didn't know. Then how are you doing today, Amy?"

Amy shrugged, and Dr Davis pursed her lips. Her eyes wandered to Aunt Sharon, who shook her head slightly. Then Dr Davis leaned forward over her desk with her hands clasped. "Now, Amy, you and I are going to get to know each other a little, all right? We'll have a very nice little chat, but first I want to ask your aunt a few questions and then it will be just you and me. How does that sound?" She asked it just as warmly, but it was the sort of question that already had an expected answer; such questions came from grown-ups once in a while and Amy knew when to spot them. She gave the obligatory response:

"Okay."

Dr Davis smiled. "Lovely. Now, you can go out and read or play in the waiting room, if you like, or you can stay here and listen if you don't think you'll get too bored."

"I want to stay here," Amy said immediately, not trusting either her aunt or Dr Davis for a second. Who knew what sort of conferencing and plotting they might do behind her back? She wasn't stupid.

But Dr Davis nodded, and then began to act completely as though Amy wasn't even in the room, a curiosity especially since all the questions were ones she could have answered just as well herself. Better, even. Moreover, the conversation between the grown-up ladies was _boring_ , and she mostly tuned them out and took to daydreaming, checking in on them every once in a while.

"… and you've been her guardian for how long?"

"Four and a half years, legally — ever since her parents died, that is to say. She's my older brother's daughter … no, no, I've never been married … she's a good girl; really she is: bit stubborn, but a good girl. Smart … no, I'm afraid I'm usually busy at work seven days a week … yes, that started around September, maybe … no …. around Easter, yes, right exactly about then …. oh, no, no … "

Amy's hazel eyes darted over to Aunt Sharon at the mention of Easter. Suddenly she was on full alert. Suddenly she knew full well why she was here, and she wasn't afraid anymore, but angry. Angry at Aunt Sharon for not believing her and angry at everyone else who didn't believe her and … and angry at the Doctor for being so late. But for him she could lay aside most sour feelings; she could forgive _him_ at least.

It seemed a long time before Dr Davis turned her attention to Amy with the words, "Now then, Amy, as I said — it's to be just you and me, all right? We're just going to talk." She glanced at Aunt Sharon, who took this as her cue to leave. She reached over to stroke Amy's hair as she went. The child ducked out of the way. Aunt Sharon paused, sighed, and took her leave.

Meanwhile Dr Davis was staring at the seven-year-old on the seat in front of her intently. She was a tall girl for her seven years; she looked closer to nine. Her arms were crossed over her chest and there was a stubborn set to her jaw. Dr Davis removed her glasses, produced her cleaning cloth from its usual place at the front of her top drawer, and polished the lenses before putting them back on. She leaned forward and laced her fingers together. "So, then, Amy," she began. The child just stared at her. "I don't know how much you listened to that conversation, but your aunt was telling me you have a runaway imagination."

Amy shrugged. "I like to play make-believe," she said guardedly. "Sometimes." She decided to say as little as possible to Dr Davis.

Dr Davis smiled at her. "Make-believe is a very nice game," she agreed. "And she says you like to read books very much, too. She says you're a very bright little girl. Do you have a favourite story?"

" _The Legend of Pandora's Box_ ," Amy said at once, for it was true. It was her very favourite story, and she knew it off by heart. She could have recited the story of the girl with all the gifts right then and there if Dr Davis asked her to, and a couple of the other Greek myths as well: she also liked the story of Prometheus and of Hades and Persephone and of Adonis and Aphrodite.

"Greek myths? That's a very good story. Most children don't know the Greek myths," said Dr Davis. "Your aunt is right; you _are_ a smart girl." She said it warmly, but in that coddling tone that only the very worst grown-ups used with children, the kind that suggested they didn't think children were all that bright at all. Amy resented her all the more.

From there Dr Davis talked to Amy a little more about the stories she liked, and what other games she liked to play, and she asked Amy about what classes she liked at school and about her friend. Amy told her as little as possible. "I have two best friends," she said dully. "Mels and Rory. They're in my class." The conversation went on and Amy wasn't altogether sure what to think. She was bracing herself for Dr Davis to start telling her to stop believing in the Doctor, but she didn't. In fact, she didn't even mention the Doctor — or the crack in Amy's wall — at all, so the girl found that she was answering Dr Davis' questions with a little more detail each time.

Dr Davis asked her some more questions, and then she got up and crossed the room. From the cupboard she fetched a sheet of printer paper and a box of assorted crayons, coloured pencils, and Magic Markers. These she delivered to Amy, and now sat in the armchair Aunt Sharon had been occupying. "Now, would you like to draw something, Amy? You can use anything you want, and draw whatever you want." She smiled as Amy blinked at her, then appraised the selection of tools she'd been presented with. "Just something small."

Amy reached for the blue coloured pencil. She didn't need to even think about what she wanted to draw. She glanced up at Dr Davis, who just looked at her encouragingly. The pencil in one hand, she scooted forward a little on the armchair, hunched over the paper, and set to work.

She didn't put forward all the effort she usually would for a drawing, so it only took her about fifteen minutes rather than a half hour. When she was finished, she wrote her name in one corner in crayon, like she did for her school art projects. With that finishing took, she set her crayon down and looked up at Dr Davis with a superior expression. Dr Davis reached for the paper slowly, as if it were beckoning her, saying very quietly to Amy, "May I …?" Amy nodded, and with tentative fingers Dr Davis took the drawing.

She held it out at arm's length, and studied it very closely. She nodded to herself, and scribbled something down in her notebook. Then she looked up, and put the drawing on the table. It sat between them, forming some undeterminable barrier between woman and child. Dr Davis put one hand on her knee, and the other on the table, fingering a corner of the sheet of paper. "Do you want to tell me about your picture, Amelia?"

Amy looked at the picture and answered, refusing to make eye contact with Dr Davis. "It's me, and the Raggedy Doctor, my best friend, standing in front of his time machine."

Dr Davis nodded, and prompted Amy to talk more about her friend, and Amy launched into the familiar story — how the Doctor had crashed his time machine in her garden at night, destroying the shed in the process, and she told her of fish custard, and how the Doctor had fixed the crack in her wall, and everything that had happened afterwards, ending on the firm note that just because her Raggedy Doctor was weeks late, it didn't mean he was never going to come. She knew that he would, in time. The whole time she talked, Dr Davis nodded a lot, and gave quite a few "Mm-hmm"s, and jotted things down in her notebook.

"So … this Raggedy Doctor, as you call him … how old is he?"

Amy shrugged. "I dunno. I didn't _ask_ him. A grown-up, but not the old kind."

"Well, Amy … " — Dr Davis pushed her glasses up her nose — "do you know what it looks like to me?" She took the drawing again, and stowed it away in the one of the little pockets of her binder. Amy blinked at her, and this doctor sighed and let out a wry chuckle. "Your aunt did tell me, and it looks like she's right, that you have a very big and sometimes runaway imagination … "

The lecture that followed was delivered in a very patient and kind tone. It was different than the usual stuff Amy got from Aunt Sharon, but all the same, with each word she found her resentment of Dr Davis mounting. It was all about how she must feel _lonely_ since her parents died, especially with her aunt being so busy at work all the time, and how she must feel _alienated_ from the other children at school because her Scottish brogue made her stick out a mile; how these feelings were _all right_ to have. _Understandable_. And sometimes, children in her situation would dream themselves up imaginary friends, which was all good and well so long as they didn't allow their imaginations to get the better of them, to be lost to _obsession_ , which was _unhealthy_ …

Needless to say, Amy tuned her out. She didn't care about all the fancy words, about the long and dull and lecture delivered by yet another cynical grown-up, however patiently. What counted was that Dr Davis was telling her that her Raggedy Doctor wasn't real.

So Amy bit her.

.~*~*~*~.

What followed was not pretty. Dr Davis had let out a yelp as Amy clamped her teeth onto her hand, and next thing Aunt Sharon came rushing in. There was a flurry of apologising on Aunt Sharon's part, and Amy was taken by the shoulders and shaken. She was finally taken by the wrist and marched out the door, leaving behind a shocked, flustered, but fuming psychiatrist.

Aunt Sharon marched Amy all the way to the car. "I don't believe it … what's the matter with you, Amelia?! … where do you get on, eh, behaving like that? … I just can't _believe_ you … "

They reached the car and Aunt Sharon finally let go of her niece to open the car door, sort of shoved Amy inside, and slammed the door shut again before going to the driver's seat. She put the keys in the ignition, but didn't turn them. Instead she spun on Amy, who was buckling her seatbelt and not paying her aunt the time of day. "What's gotten into you, Amelia, eh?! What were you thinking?"

Amy crossed her arms over her chest. "Amy," she retorted stubbornly, for she didn't feel an ounce of guilt for biting that rotten old lady. In fact she felt rather proud of herself.

Aunt Sharon shook her head. "Oh, no, young lady … now is most absolutely _not_ the time for sweet nicknames." She wheeled, and punched the steering wheel, causing it to toot, before turning on her niece again. "What on earth were you thinking?"

Amy looked out the window. "She said my Doctor's imaginary," she answered sullenly, and shrugged to show just how indifferent she was in regards to the matter.

Which was when Aunt Sharon gave up. She started the car and turned the radio on very loud, shaking her head and muttering to herself the whole way back to Leadworth.

They did not end up seeing _Toy Story_.


	5. Chapter 5

.  
 _Counting_

Author's Note: I just want to bid you all a big, big apology for the late update, and the fact that chances are the next chapter will be late as well. I know the waits are hard, but school has started and I have been lost to a whirlwind of homework and thinking about uni applications. Also, I've been putting in a bit more focus to my _Les Mis_ story, "New World for the Winning." So I am so, so sorry. I'm hoping the next update, while late, will come a little sooner. Bear with me!

* * *

Chapter Five

.~*~*~*~.

 _17 June 1996_

By the time morning rolled around the next day, Amy was in absolutely no mood to get up and face school. Her sour mood towards her aunt had in absolutely no way softened, and she had neglected her homework, which meant she was probably going to get a scolding. Then her teacher would call Aunt Sharon, and she'd surely get another scolding from her to boot.

What was more, she didn't want to face the other children in her class. They'd taken to teasing her about her Raggedy Doctor, and while she _had_ punched Jack Islington in the face last week for making fun of her about the matter, the sweet taste of her victory hadn't lasted very long because one of Jack's loyal sidekicks had run and tattled, and Amy's outburst hadn't gone over very well.

And to think it was still three whole weeks until summer holidays!

Amy decided she would not go to school today. Aunt Sharon hadn't said a word to her when they'd arrived back home yesterday, so maybe she wouldn't call her down to get ready for school. Amy snuggled down into the folds of her blankets and pulled the duvet over her head. She waited. After a few minutes, she peeked out to look at her clock. It was ten to eight. If she just waited up here very quietly twenty-five minutes, then Aunt Sharon would leave for work and Amy could stay at home all day. And it wouldn't count as skiving off, because Aunt Sharon could never say she saw Amy up and getting ready, so she wouldn't be in trouble.

No sooner had this children's logic settled in her mind, than did Aunt Sharon's shout ring up the stairs: "Ame _lia_! Amelia, it's time to wake up now!"

Amy did not miss the lack of the use of her nickname. She burrowed deeper under her covers and pretended to be asleep. She managed to stay like this for another ten minutes, until she heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs and into her bedroom. She felt Aunt Sharon shaking her shoulder. One of Amy's arms founds its way out of the blankets, batting the offending hand away. But her aunt was having none of it, and eventually the glorious blankets were ripped off Amy's head, and the seven-year-old found herself looking up at her aunt's stern face. "I don't want to go to school," Amy said stubbornly, in no mood for wheedling.

"Unless you're ill," was Aunt Sharon's firm reply, perhaps the sternest Amy had heard her (excepting the time she had punched Jack Islington in the face). "Then you're going. Now get up, unless you want a late mark."

"I won't," Amy answered stoutly.

"Oh yes, you are," said Aunt Sharon.

They went back and forth for a bit, but eventually Amy got out of bed, and put her uniform on, and brushed her teeth, and her hair, and went downstairs, dragging her feet the whole way. She was running quite late by now, so for breakfast she stuffed a piece of toast with preserves in her mouth as she went out the door. She considered asking Aunt Sharon to drive her to school, because after all, she would get there much quicker if she went in the car. But then she decided to run instead, because after all, Aunt Sharon would just say no.

She was sprinting as fast as she could in her good school shoes down the street, when to her surprise, she saw Rory standing outside of his house. What was he doing, and didn't he know he was going to be late for school?

Amy measured the distance between them, and aimed for exactly the right spot without slowing down. Still running as fast as she could, she passed right by Rory, grabbing his hand on the way and tugging him behind her. She had to slow down just a little bit, because he was so much smaller, but not so much that Rory didn't have to stumble to keep up with her. "What … what are you doing?" he cried. "Slow down! I can't run as fast as you!"

"We're going to be late, stupid!"

So they ran, as if there were monsters chasing them, and they were very lucky to stumble into the schoolyard just as first bell rang. The other children were just starting to queue up with their respective classes. Amy and Rory joined the rest of the Year Twos, and she turned on him. "What's wrong with you?" she asked him. "Why did you wait for me like that?"

Rory only shrugged.

"You would have been late, stupid."

Rory shrugged again, and Amy sighed. "Well. Thanks anyway." She looked down at her toes, and Rory began to rummage through his schoolbag for something. Amy stood on her tiptoes to look for Mels in the schoolyard ruckus that was only just starting to organise itself, but she couldn't find her anywhere.

The teachers began to shepherd the children into the school building, and Amy took her usual window seat in the third row of her classroom, and got out all her schoolbooks and prayed that the teacher wouldn't do a homework check. The second bell finally rang, but there was still no sign of Mels, who happened to be Amy's desk partner. (The desks in the classroom were arranged in paired rows). Amy looked forlornly at the unoccupied seat next to her. Her desk looked very lonely without Mels seated beside her, and the day's events were sure to be very quiet and boring without Mels there to make things extra-interesting.

The second bell rang at 8.30, and the day began. Amy slogged her way through Maths, Geography, and History. She sat with Rory at lunch and then she slogged her way through P.E and English. After school, she and Rory sat on the swings. Rory was allowed, and Amy was in no mood to go home yet; and since Aunt Sharon wouldn't be home yet, she didn't need to.

Rory was pumping with all his seven-year-old's might, but Amy sat, swinging her legs half-heartedly, her hands on the chains and her eyes on her lap. She looked so glum that she caught the attention of Rory, who stopped pumping his legs, and when his swing slowed down enough, he jumped onto the rubber mulch ground and came up to her. Amy stopped swinging her legs, too. "Why're you so sad?" Rory asked bluntly.

Amy looked up, and hazel eyes met grey. "He's coming for me," she said, softly, meekly. Weakly. "I know he is. I'm waiting and he's coming. Any day now."

Rory looked grave. "Who? Your Raggedy Doctor?"

She nodded. "He's for real."

"Well," said Rory. "If you're still waiting, then I'll wait with you."

It was such a Rory-like comment, to the point and devoted, Amy could have kissed him. She didn't of course, but she climbed off the swing and a small smile found its way to her lips. She took her second-best friend's hand instead, and rested her head peacefully on one of his shoulders. She had to hunker down a little to do it, but she was quite comfortable.

They stayed like that for a quarter of an hour, perhaps more, until Amy at last shattered the silence of that little gem of a childhood moment. "Can you come over to my house, Rory?"

He looked doubtful all of a sudden. "I don't know. My mummy wants me back by five."

"But, it's only 3.30 in the afternoon," Amy argued. "And you only live a block from me. Just for a little bit?"

Rory finally agreed, and hand-in-hand, the two seven-year-olds walked all the way to Amy's house together. Amy got two cherry ice lollies from the freezer, and the two children sat together in the front garden. There they were, leaning against the new garden shed and licking their treats contentedly, their eyes on the sky and the future, and their hearts beating in time to the same pitiful hope.

.~*~*~*~.

Amy went on sitting in the garden long after Rory had to go home, until the sky grew pinkish-orange with the first brushstrokes of sunset and the mosquitoes came out. She swatted at them, but they did not deter her. After all, she reasoned, she would probably have to face very scary monsters when the Doctor finally came for her and took her away on adventures. A few annoying mosquitoes didn't bother her, not even when one bit her on the hand before she could swat it.

She didn't know how long she sat out there, she never did, but eventually it got so quiet that Amy heard the sound of clacking shoes coming down the sidewalk. Aunt Sharon! She didn't want her aunt to catch her waiting. If she was caught, then she would be in trouble, and Aunt Sharon might take her to see another awful psychiatrist again. Thinking fast, Amy leapt to her feet, grateful she'd already dropped her schoolbag off in her room when she'd gone to get the ice lollies, and ran for her bicycle where it was leaning against the shed. She was walking it down the garden path when the gate opened and Aunt Sharon came in. She seemed startled at the sight of her niece walking her bike out at 9pm. In fact, she stopped in her tracks, put her briefcase down on the ground, and put her hands on her hips. "Amelia, what are you doing?"

 _Still Amelia_ , Amy noted. She stopped, too, stuck her chin in the air, and answered haughtily, "I'm going for a bike ride."

"Not at this hour," Aunt Sharon replied sternly, and Amy fought the urge to roll her eyes, but she did as her aunt bid her and went to put her bicycle back where she'd found it. Had she actually been in the mood for taking her bike out for a ride, she might have put up a bit more of a fuss, but really she just wanted to wait.

Her aunt picked up her briefcase and began the march down the path into the house. A sullen Amy followed at her heels, dragging her feet. On the short way, Aunt Sharon asked her questions in the clipped, brusque tone she reserved for when she was very, very cross with her niece: "Did you do your homework?"

"Yes, Aunt Sharon."

"Did you have your supper?"

"Yes, Aunt Sharon."

"Did you have a nice day at school?"

"Yes, Aunt Sharon."

"You didn't come home too late, did you?"

"Yes, Aun — I mean, no, Aunt Sharon."

Aunt Sharon unlocked the door and held it open for her niece, who traipsed into the house miserably, then, thinking better of it, ran upstairs to her room and slammed the door, just so Aunt Sharon got the picture that she had no interest in speaking to her.

Amy changed into her pyjamas, and what she did next was the natural thing: she dragged her desk chair over to the window, and knelt there, waiting. She must have waited for about an hour when there was a soft knock on the door, and Amy dived from her seat onto her bed in one skilful move. She just had time to grab the nearest book — an old volume she hadn't looked at in years, _The Children's Treasury of Verse_ — before the door opened. There was no missing the tiny sigh of relief that escaped Aunt Sharon as she saw her niece seated on her bed looking at a book rather than kneeling by the window, as she had been seen doing a hundred times before. "What are you reading there, Amy, love?"

 _Amy_. The seven-year-old decided the fairest thing would be to look up and face her aunt, not that she still wasn't nursing angry feelings towards her guardian. "A book," she said stoutly, shutting the large tome and putting it on the shelf next to her.

Her aunt chuckled a little and sat on the edge of Amy's bed. "All dressed in your pyjamas and ready for bed?" Amy nodded slowly. The smallest of smiles. "Well, there's a good girl."

Amy nodded again. Outside, there was a sudden gust of wind; the branch of a tree tickled the wall of the house. Her eyes strayed to the window, but she quickly turned them back to her aunt, and waited for her to get to the point, unsure of what to make of this sudden tenderness, seeing how cross Aunt Sharon had been just an hour before. It was a long while before she finally did. "Amy, love, I wanted to talk to you. About … this Raggedy Doctor of yours."

Instantly, Amy, a stoic child by nature, felt her defences go up. In her mind, she set up a barrier between her and Aunt Sharon, one that wouldn't allow all her grown-up cynicism to infect her mind, one that would not let Aunt Sharon take her firm faith away from her. She set her jaw but still refused to say anything. She wondered if maybe she'd be able to get through the whole night without saying a word. She braced herself for what her aunt had to say next.

The words came, and Amy hated them. Hated her.

"This … _fixation_ you have on that imaginary Doctor of yours really does need to stop now, Amy, love. All right. So maybe calling that Dr Davis was a little … _rash_ on my part. Do you know what that word means?"

Amy didn't know what irritations of the skin had to do with anything, but it was her goal to not say a word to her aunt in this exchange, so she just nodded, and after sighing, Aunt Sharon continued. "And I think that having imaginary friends isn't so bad; I had an imaginary friend when I was your age, you know, sweet pea. But you have to remember that imaginary friends are _imaginary_ , and that they only exist in your head. You've got so … _obsessed_ with this friend of yours, and well, it needs to stop, Amelia. You must grow out of this silliness."

The seven-year-old replied with a solemn glare.

Aunt Sharon, undeterred, continued. "And you can't just go on biting people, Amy. You know better than that. I don't want you biting anybody anymore, and that's final. Not me, not your teacher, not the other children at school, and certainly not your headmistress." She shuddered a little. "Not anyone who tells you, and rightly so, that it's time you remembered what a clever, mature girl you are, a big girl, and put an end to this fantasy of yours."

Lips pursed, Amy looked at her aunt long and hard. She almost said something, almost protested. But then she thought, _what's the point?_ Aunt Sharon was never going to try to get her to stop believing, and Amy had no plans on stopping waiting. So she dropped back onto her bed and tugged the duvet over her head, and waited for her aunt to leave the room.

Aunt Sharon got the picture. Through the duvet, Amy heard her sigh, and get off the bed and walk out of the room, clicking out the light on her way. She shut the door, and Amy was left in total darkness. Finally the child kicked the duvet off, and crawled over to the window, where she knelt in the chair, and waited in secret.

.~*~*~*~.

 _18 June 1996_

Amy didn't sleep very well that night. She was very careful not to fall asleep at the windowsill, as she had done many times in the past. Instead, as soon as she began to nod, she crawled into bed and fell into an uneasy, dreamless sleep. She kept waking up at one-hour intervals, and it would take her a while to fall back asleep, so around 3am, she got up for a drink of water and then went for a wee, just for something to do. This process continued until 6.30am, when she gave up any hope of sleep and brushed her teeth and hair, put her uniform on, and finally went downstairs to fix herself a breakfast of buttered crumpets and tea. She wasn't really supposed to drink it yet, but sometimes Aunt Sharon let her have some provided it was weak tea and she put in lots of milk and sugar. She was quite hungry, seeing as she hadn't eaten since noon yesterday, so she went through two whole crumpets and then a big bunch of grapes.

It was barely past seven when she was finished. So early that Aunt Sharon wasn't even up yet; she didn't wake until 7.15. That was when she set her alarm for. Amy poured herself a big glass of chocolate milk and drained it standing up, deposited the empty glass in the sink, and sat herself down wondering what she would do now. In the end, she decided to leave early for school. She hoped to do this before Aunt Sharon even woke up. She hurried upstairs and packed her schoolbag — not that there was anything to pack; her unfinished homework sat in her binder, not even taken out of there, and as for her lunch money, she already had it — so it wasn't long before she was able to run back downstairs and walk herself out the front door, down the garden path, and out onto the street.

Leadworth was a quiet town, so small it didn't even have 10 000 people living in it, and it was such a sleepy little village that the only people up at barely past 7am were the newspaper boys, the milkman, and the morning joggers and dog walkers. Amy passed Mrs Roy in her tight jogging outfit as she listened to her Walkman. The woman looked surprised to see Amy up so very early, with her schoolbag and all, but she jogged right past the girl.

Rory wasn't up yet, of course. Amy hoped he wouldn't wait for her again this morning. She wasn't keen on sitting on the kerb for an hour and a half waiting for him, so she passed his house and kept on going to school. She played on the playscape for a good while, until the first tricklings of children began to arrive, all of whom of course made straight for the playground equipment.

By now, it was about 8am, an hour at which only the very early-rising children showed at school. Amy was beginning to feel bored, but Mels happened to be in this select group of young unfortunates, and she was thrilled when she spotted her friend, walking calmly for the swings.

That was a funny thing about Mels, she never really ran and shrieked as much as the other children in Amy's year. She reminded her of the older children in school, the twelve- and thirteen-year-olds, maybe. Amy waved with her most vigorous hand gestures, and Mels spotted her at once. She jogged over. The swings were all taken by now, so the two girls made for a bench instead, where Mels proved her worthiness by opening her schoolbag and opening a big box of Smarties for them to share. "What are _you_ doing here so early? You're always almost late."

"I made sure to wake up early," said Amy. "Why weren't you at school yesterday?"

"I had a cold," Mels answered. "But now I don't. It works that way, you know."

Sometimes Mels could just say the strangest things. The girls shared the Smarties until they were all finished, and Mels got out her game of Pick Up Sticks, but a concern had been pressing in at the edges of Amy's mind, and now she voiced it. She told her friend how she didn't want Rory waiting for her this morning, because she didn't want him to be late for school just for her sake, especially when she was already at school.

Mels paused, then, without taking her eyes off Amy's, put her box of Pick Up Sticks back in her schoolbag. "He waits for you every day?" she asked, a gleam passing through her chocolate brown eyes. Hope? Amy nodded, and Mels smiled broadly. "Oh. That's … cute. Do you think he'll marry you someday?"

"I'm not going to marry Rory Williams!" said Amy horrified. Mels beamed, and an affronted shrieked. "I'm not! You'll see that I won't!"

"Yes, you are," Mels smirked. "He's going to kiss you and ask you to marry him and you're going to kiss him. Now come on, let's go pick him up; there's time yet." The girls linked arms and made their way across the schoolyard, back to Amy and Rory's street.

Amy groused about the idea of marrying Rory. "No way am I marrying him. And besides, if I do, _I'll_ have to be the one that asks him."

.~*~*~*~.

At lunch hour, Amy sat with her friends, as she always did, in their preferred corner of the cafeteria — on the floor, around the Year Sixes. They couldn't sit at the tables because then they would be jostled around and called babies, so on the floor they sat. They didn't like to sit with the rest of the children in their year; sitting around the older children made them feel much more grown-up.

Rory Williams couldn't really understand the girls' logic. Eating around the older children just made him feel smaller, but if he wanted anyone to sit with at lunch, well, he'd better keep his mouth shut about it unless he wanted Mels or Amy to punch his shoulder in a display of superior strength. He ate the carrot sticks his mummy had packed in little nibbles, his knees drawn close to his chest, his eyes wandering to the girls sat on either side of him: Mels munching her sandwich, Amy gnawing at her pizza slice. He thought Amy looked very glum and unhappy. She'd looked unhappy yesterday too, but today she looked gloomier than ever, her entire air was altogether very Eeyorish. Finally he worked up the nerve to ask her. "Amy, what's wrong?"

Amy shrugged, but she'd caught Mels' attention. Mels patted Amy on the back. "Yes, _what's_ wrong, Amy? You've been all sad since this morning."

Amy put down her pizza and sipped from her juice box, relishing the loud slurping sound it made. She looked downward, at her toes. Her mind had been lingering on the unhappy conversation she'd had with Aunt Sharon all morning, ever since classes started. _You must grow out of this silliness._

How was it possible to outgrow what was true, to pretend as if the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her in her whole short life was a mere fantasy, another one of her many games of make-believe? Amy had never set foot in a church, for Aunt Sharon was not religious and her parents hadn't been either. She supposed she might have done at her parents' funeral, but it was too long ago for Amy to remember. She had never set foot in a church, but how could she let go of her own faith, what her heart knew, wanted to know, to be true? How could she listen to the person, who, guardian or not, had taken her to a _psychiatrist_?

She was starting to detest Aunt Sharon all over again.

Amy wasn't sure whether or not to tell Mels and Rory about the visit to Dr Davis, at first, because she didn't know what they'd think of her. She was fairly certain Mels believed her tale wholeheartedly, but as for Rory … he didn't disclose any obvious information as to whether he believed or not. But on the other hand, her little heart was bursting with the need to vent. About it all.

So she put down her juice box. She took a deep breath. And she did.

She told her friends.

Everything.

And they listened, their own little faces solemn as they hung onto Amy's every word. When she finished, telling them about how she'd bitten that Dr Davis, there was a silence. Mels, as was wont, was the one to break it.

"Good for you! I would have bit her too."

.~*~*~*~.

 _27 June 1996_

Over the past few weeks, Amy had been doing her homework less and less, looking out the window more and more. Her teacher questioned her constantly, but after several days of the same occurrence, the teacher wouldn't stand for Amy's (perfectly honest, mind) "I forgot." Aunt Sharon was telephoned, and called in to confer with the teacher and headmistress. The end result hadn't been pretty as, after being assigned a homework log, Aunt Sharon marched out of the school at the end of the day with her niece hurrying to keep up.

Aunt Sharon had fumed the whole afternoon. "Don't believe it … I have to miss work for this; and the boss didn't like it … Amy, you've told me you're doing it every night … "

"But I do forget," Amy insisted.

"Well, you won't anymore. When we get home, you're going to do all your homework, _in front of me_."

That had been Monday.

Amy had done her homework every day since, like a good girl, and it was all very boring. She had to do Maths problems and practise her multiplication tables. She had to read from her History textbook and answer questions, and label things on maps for Geography. She even had to memorise all the counties of the UK and their capital cities, and the countries of Western Europe and _their_ capital cities. It was very dull work.

But at least she wasn't in trouble so much anymore. Yesterday they learned about the _Titanic,_ which was kind of interesting for once, and answered questions about it for homework, and when the teacher checked Amy's, she smiled and put a sticker on it that said, "GOOD JOB!"

At the moment, they were taking up the homework. Amy was trying very hard to concentrate by telling herself that she could show off all she knew about History to the Raggedy Doctor. Her previous logic had been that she had no need to study it because the Doctor could take her to the past and _show_ her everything in real life. But she kept gazing out the window. It was when she heard Mels' name being called in an irritated voice that Amy was snapped out of her reverie.

"Mels," said the teacher impatiently, "I'm asking you why the _Titanic_ sank."

All eyes in the room were on Mels, standing up with her blazer tied around her waist for the heat, which wasn't even technically allowed, though the teachers didn't really cause a fuss. It was clear to Amy that Mels had been talking back already, and that the teacher was at the end of her rope. She could practically taste the tension in the air.

Mels adopted a superior expression. "Because the Doctor didn't save it," she said, crossing her arms, and Amy's heart swelled. "But you don't know about the Doctor, because you're _stupid_."

.~*~*~*~.

"Why are you always in trouble?" Amy asked Mels as they crossed the schoolyard at the end of the day. She had just come from picking their friend up from the headmistress' office.

Mels lifted a shoulder, and Amy sighed. How she wished she could just throw her arms around Mels, and thank her, thank her for really and truly believing. If Amy had ever doubted that Mels believed her tale, here was her proof that she need not doubt at all. Mels believed her, so loyally and wholeheartedly that she had been nominated Amy's new best friend. The Raggedy Doctor was beginning to slide down to share Rory's rank as second-best friend, seeing how late he was.

She wanted to hug Mels, but she decided not to. Much as it meant to her, she knew it was wrong of Mels to be talking back to teachers like that. So instead she lectured her. "You have to respect teachers, even the stupid ones. You keep getting into trouble like that, and it's not right. You can't just go talking to the teachers like that."

Mels stopped in her tracks and huffed in irritation. "Yes, _Mum_."


	6. Chapter 6

.

 _Counting_

* * *

Chapter Six

.~*~*~*~.

 _2 July 1996_

Sharon Pond was concerned. Obviously.

Her young niece might have been a deceptive little thing, shutting up about her hope that her imaginary friend was coming for her, keeping it all to herself, but Sharon knew better. She'd seen young Amy gazing longingly out the window, her eyes fixed skyward; and she'd seen the new drawings in her room; and she'd caught her seated at her window in the wee hours many a time.

Little Amy had always had an imagination. But in recent months she'd let it get the better of her. Back when Amy had started talking about the "crack in her wall," Sharon had been concerned as what had originally seemed to be another game of make-believe gone too far developed into a fixation, but those days were innocent compared to her niece's latest obsession. Sharon supposed she had realised a while ago that Amy's obsession with her "Raggedy Doctor" was more than mere child's play, but in the past month or so it had gotten worse. Amy, who had always been a stoic child, had become more grim and introverted than ever, and Sharon knew she was seeing less and less of those few friends of hers outside of school. Once Amy had invited that Rory boy over, and she'd caught the two children staring out of her bedroom window together; it would seem Amy had dragged her friends into her unhealthy fixation and convinced them her childhood-fantasies-that-went-beyond-fantasies were as real as she clearly and wholeheartedly believed them to be.

Oh, yes, she was concerned.

The visit to the psychiatrist's in Leicester hadn't gone well, but Sharon was now ready to try again.

She sipped her coffee and smoothed out the bit of paper with the phone number scrawled on it. Sharon had been talking to one of her work friends, Eleanor, who'd recommended her very own therapist. "It's for me," Sharon had told her, not wanting to shame her young niece. "I'm just under a whole lot of bleedin' stress right now, y'know?"

"Well, he's good," had been her friend's eager reply. "Real good, whenever I need him I ring him up and book a session. He's strict, all no-nonsense and that sort of thing, but on the other hand, he knows what he's doing and he doesn't charge too much."

"But," Sharon had protested, "is he good for, you know, everything? Like, beyond stress? I want someone with … qualifications."

Eleanor had put a hand on her shoulder and shaken her head with a little smile on her lips. "The best, love. And you know if you're stressed you can talk to me, too, don't you?"

"Oh, no, it's nothing _that_ bad. I mean, yes, I'll come to you if I need you." Sharon had returned a strained smile. "I know you're here for me, El. You're a good mate."

Now Sharon pushed out her cheek with her tongue as she tapped lacquered nails, a job requirement for secretaries everywhere, against the desk. She looked up briefly to make sure no-one was entering the office, then she picked up the phone and dialled. Two rings, and there was an answer from a bored-sounding secretary just as the office door swung open and a young customer walked in. "Hello," the young woman heard the dark-haired secretary say in a strong northern Scottish accent. "I'd like to book an appointment for sometime next week, please."

.~*~*~*~.

 _5 July 1996_

The last day of school ritual would probably never change. The teachers had nothing to teach as the children had gotten their progress reports at the beginning of the week, on the Monday. So of course this last week of school was spent with all the children watching movies on VHS, lots of boring educational videos but a few Disney movies and cartoons as well. But on the final _day_ of school, Amy and her schoolmates could hardly concentrate on _The Queen's Nose_ when they had the important activity of clock-watching to tend to.

"Seven minutes," Mels whispered to Amy gleefully. "And fourteen seconds, only less than that now."

"Don't add seconds," Amy said. "It makes it seem longer." She groaned, and leaned back in her chair so that it was balanced on its back legs. "This is a long day," she finally said pointedly. She gave the screen a glance for a moment, then turned her attention back to the clock.

"Six minutes and fifty-two seconds," Mels shot back, and Amy elbowed her.

It went on like that until there was only one minute left of school. By now of course there was not a child in the room who cared about Harmony and her magic coin, and most shot out from their seats to gather around the clock. The smallest of them pushed towards the front, and the largest children in the class pushed right back. Amy happened to be second-tallest girl in her class, so she had the privilege of having a very good view of the clock as the countdown began. "Thirty … twenty-nine … "

Rory was trying rather pathetically to push towards the front without being noticed, a futile pursuit. Amy let loose a long-suffering sigh and rolled her eyes, grabbed Rory's sleeve, and tugged him in front of her.

"Twenty-two .. twenty-one … twenty … "

Amy's gaze flickered over to the window, but she was so caught in the excitement it didn't last long. She spared a quick look over at her teacher, who she knew she wouldn't miss a bit. She'd been dull and strict, and Amy was glad to be leaving her behind to play mother hen to the next batch of Year Twos. She was going to have one of the Year Three teachers at the end of August, and in February she was going to be eight years old. She was feeling very grown-up, really, never mind the fact that growing up was the opposite of what Amy wanted.

"Eleven … ten … nine … eight … "

Amy grabbed Rory and shook his arm a little in excitement. Under ordinary circumstances he would protest and shake her off, but he was clearly so excited also that he didn't care.

"Six … five … "

Where was Mels? Amy stood on tiptoe, looking for her desperately. She'd thought Mels was right next to her. But now was hardly the time to start looking for her friend.

"Three … two … _one_!"

The final bell of the school year rang, that blessed sound, and the classroom burst into shrieks of joy and loud cheers. Shouts of, "School's out, school's out!" became the reigning sound, and similar celebrations could be heard in the classroom next door. Papers were thrown into the air, feet were stomped, hugs were exchanged, children began to flow out of the classroom, and Josie Lane climbed up onto a desk with the wastepaper basket and tipped it upside down, jumping up and down in her excitement.

Amy pushed out with the rest of her schoolmates, losing Rory in the crowd. She stood on her tiptoes and braced herself against the wave of older students, now more interested in hunting for Mels. She was pushed aside by a Year Six girl with a retainer on her teeth. "Don't you know better'n to stand in the middle of the corridor, kid?" was the shouted reprimand.

Her back pressed to the wall, Amy waited until the most aggressive, older students had passed by before wandering back to the classroom. She poked her head in to find her teacher putting the VHS back in its case. She turned around when Amy peeped in, looking pleased. "Hello, Amelia," she said pleasantly. "Come to say goodbye?"

"No," said Amy. "I was just looking for Mels."

She found her best friend ten minutes later, on the playground and munching a liquorice stick while dangling upside-down by her knees from the monkey bars. Amy cocked her head to look at her. "Where were you at the countdown?"

Mels' expression was impassive. "I left early." Swinging back around, she dropped to the rubber mulch ground and stuck a hand in her pocket. "Liquorice?"

Amy took the sweet that was offered to her and took a bite, getting much satisfaction out of the way she had to pull at the plastic-like candy with her teeth for it to snap. She and Mels began to wander over to the slide by the unspoken agreement of friendship, which they sometimes liked to sit at the bottom of and talk, ignoring any kids that might actually want to slide down it. "Why would you leave early?" asked Amy around a full mouth. "The countdown's always fun."

"Nobody can _make_ me be there at the countdown," was the haughty reply. "Oh, look, there's Rory." Mels pointed, and sure enough, there was their friend over on the balance beam.

The girls went over and joined him, and the threesome shared a moment of enthusing about the fact that they were all done Year Two. What followed was a suggestion from Rory that was met with much enthusiasm from the girls that they all go and get themselves ice creams. Not the boring 50p ice creams from the ice cream van, but the nice kind from the ice cream parlour facing the square, where they could get themselves posh waffle cones and up to three scoops in fancy flavours like mint chocolate chip and yoghurt-cherry. The place was Starlight, a tiny little venue with a view of the duck pond (which was void of any ducks or geese or any kind of wildlife apart from toads all year round, but no matter).

The children sat on the little wooden bench outside, and they ate their ice creams and laughed and talked about what a wonderful summer they would have and all the cool stuff they would do, like go to the cinema and meet up at the fairground in Leicester and go swimming at the pool and make a fort in Mels' backyard. (Amy had the biggest front garden, but it was Mels who had the best backyard).

And they would play Doctor-and-Amy-and-monsters. It was a game Amy had begun insisting they play recently, that involved Amy being herself, Rory pretending to be her Raggedy Doctor, and Mels being a horrible scary monster that wanted to take over the world. Mels had been so eager to play along and Rory normally played whatever the girls wanted, so a very good system at work as far as Amy was concerned.

It was going to be a wonderful summer, the best yet of their short lives.

.~*~*~*~.

 _8 July 1996_

Amy was sat at the kitchen table that morning, with a Roald Dahl book open in front of her, eating the cereal she'd prepared herself. Her whole air was still warm and bright and fresh with the promise of a long seven weeks of summer to live out in front of her.

It was quite a nice day out, and still early — 8am — and Amy had a mind to running over to Rory's house to put on their bathing suits and run around in the fountain at the park. Mels unfortunately would not be able to be included in their plans that day; she was supposed to be seeing her counsellor all the way in Peterborough. But it would be fun to play in the fountain, and maybe after she'd get invited to Rory's house for supper and have one of his mummy's nice meals. Last night she and Aunt Sharon had gotten Chinese take-away, and Amy _hated_ Chinese food, with the exception of fried rice and the fortune cookies. She would much rather eat good cooking at Rory's house.

She heard from the corridor the click of shoes, and she pretended to be so immersed in her book she couldn't hear her aunt coming in, nor that she heard when Aunt Sharon said, "Good morning, Amy." She waited until her aunt pulled her book away from her and shut it. Then she looked up with a practised startled expression, which caused her aunt to chuckle and ruffle her hair. "You know how I feel about you reading at the table. I'm going to put this out on the shelf by the phone, all right? You can keep reading later." She patted Amy's head and then went back out into the corridor. _Click, click, click_ , went her high-heeled shoes. Then _click, click, click_ as she came back again. Aunt Sharon took a slice of bread from the breadbox and popped it into the toaster, then busied herself digging the preserves out from the back of the fridge. She glanced back at Amy. "Don't you want some fruit with your cereal, Amy, love?"

Amy looked down at her bowl. "They're Froot Loops," she argued matter-of-factly, and Aunt Sharon chuckled as she put the kettle on.

"Yes, well, you know Froot Loops aren't real fruit, don't you, sweet pea?"

Amy shrugged and took another mouthful. Over the past two weeks or so, she had been very careful in how she behaved with Aunt Sharon, her every action meticulously measured and thought out with all the precision of a seven-year-old. She had decided she would not be _too_ , too distant from her aunt; if she acted in a manner that was completely detached her behaviour would be noticed. But she wasn't about to start hugging her when she came home from work each night, either.

Aunt Sharon came round behind her and kissed the top of her head. "I'm taking the day off work today," she said, and with those words Amy's defences went up. Suddenly the child was on red alert. She sat up straighter but didn't say anything for fear of attracting attention. "You didn't have plans with your friends, did you? I was thinking we could do something together, you and me." She smiled, lips pressed too tightly together.

"Like what?" Amy looked back down at her Froot Loops and chased the blue ones around with her spoon. Leadworth was a boring town for a grown-up to spend quality time with a child in.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe we could … go for a bike ride or something. In the afternoon, though." She sighed. "Amy, sweet pea, I need you to listen to me."

Amy's gaze flicked upwards, but she said nothing. Aunt Sharon paused and Amy waited. At last the answer came, delivered in simple, matter-of-fact syllables that were void of any false or forced gentleness. "Amy, I thought it would do you good to talk to another person about that Doctor of yours."

Amy put her spoon down but refused to say a word. Betrayal wrenched at her little heart. "I've booked an appointment for eleven this morning, in Leicester, but with a different person. I'm hoping it will go better this time. I don't expect any biting from you."

"Why?"

The sigh was long and drawn out, and Amy could sense Aunt Sharon groping for words. "You know why. But I booked the appointment because you _need_ to talk to somebody, Amy, someone who will make you understand — "

"Understand what?" Amy glowered up at her guardian.

Cue sigh number two. "Eat your breakfast, Amy, and cooperate, please." Her voice trembled a moment, and she tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear. "For me, all right? Be a good girl for me." The intimate moment was interrupted by the shrill whistle of the kettle, and her aunt shot to her feet to take it off the burner, glad for a distraction, something to occupy herself with.

Amy scraped her chair back and got up. "I'm not hungry anymore," she announced stoutly, and went to her room. There, she huddled over her desk, where she drew a picture of the Raggedy Doctor's time machine box with her dark blue crayon, and then for good measure she drew the ground, painting the grass green and adding a few little flowers. Then she drew a sun, and finally filled in the sky with a lighter shade of blue. A thick green line separated the sky and the earth, borders marked in plain Crayola.

.~*~*~*~.

They got to the psychiatrist's ten minutes late, because Amy had made a point of dallying as much as possible when Aunt Sharon had shouted up the stairs that it was time to go. She'd shouted back she needed to wee, and then sat on the edge of the bathtub until Aunt Sharon knocked on the bathroom door asking if she was all right. Upon bursting into the office, the secretary took a look at the two of them, sighed wearily, and looked over at the logbook open on her desk. "Amelia Pond, I'm guessing?"

Aunt Sharon nodded, and the secretary pointed towards the office door marked, _Dr Michael Craig_. "In there, if you please. No, no — I'll sign you in. You're late enough as it is."

It was Aunt Sharon who opened the door, and held it open for her niece. Amy trailed in miserably, dragging her heels as much as possible.

The office was a study in bland. Pasty green walls. A display of certificates on the far wall. Grey carpeting on the floor. A long, wide wooden desk. A shelf, holding a few great big books and various small knick-knacks. Amy was drawn momentarily to a snowglobe, with a little angel sitting cross-legged inside of it, but she forced herself to look away. A big leather sofa in one corner, next to a tall potted plant.

Dr Craig himself was just as boring, sat behind his desk in a leather swivel chair. He was old and fat and wearing an ugly plaid suit. He had a pair of little round spectacles and was balding. His fingers laced together, he looked at the two who had just entered his office — one woman, one little girl — and gestured with a sweeping hand towards the sofa. "Sit. Oh, and, shut the door, if you don't mind."

Amy sat down while Aunt Sharon shut the door. She decided to make a point of glaring at Dr Craig. Already she didn't like him. She crossed her arms, and her legs too. Aunt Sharon sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa with her hands in her lap. There was a long, drawn-out pause. At last Dr Craig pushed his spectacles up his nose. "So, I take it _you're_ little Amelia Pond," he said, addressing Amy with a smile that was not bright but very polite. Very British.

Her aunt spoke for her. "Yes," she said. "She's seven."

"Are you, now? Well, that's very nice." Dr Craig smiled at her. Amy gave him a sombre look in return. "Now, Amelia, would you mind stepping aside for a little bit while I talk to your aunt? It won't be very long, and you can look at the magazines if you like."

Amy got to her feet and walked out, dragging her heels. She shut the office door behind her quietly and stomped her feet on the ground a couple of times on the spot. Then she leaned over and pressed her ear to the narrow crack between the door and its frame in the hopes of catching any bits of conversation. Instantly someone snapped their fingers — the secretary. "Oi — you there, Amelia, isn't it? You come away from there now, dear. Your aunt and Dr Craig want to have a talk."

Reluctantly, the seven-year-old tore herself away from the door. She couldn't really hear anything anyway. "But they're talking about me," she still saw it fit to protest.

The secretary shook her head and crossed her arms. "That may be so, love, but if they wanted you to know what they were saying they wouldn't have asked to leave. Now, why don't you look at some magazines for a little? I don't imagine it'll take long." She gestured to an end table with old issues of boring grown-up magazines fanned out on display.

Amy picked one up and put it back down again. "Those are boring." She looked around the room but she couldn't see any good books to read, or games to play with. There wasn't even a television to watch. It was obvious, both by the waiting room's conservative anti-décor and by the secretary's mannerisms that Dr Craig's office wasn't used to catering to children. Another reason why Amy resented being here.

The secretary gave her a sympathetic smile. "I can get you a paper and a pen if you want to draw pictures."

Amy looked up at her and nodded in earnest. The woman dug around in a drawer of her desk, which Amy could tell even from halfway across the room was much more cluttered than its spotless surface, and eventually produced a sheet of blank printing paper and a pencil. She handed these to Amy with a kind smile, and Amy took them. "Thank you."

She took them to one of the hard plastic chairs in the room, but no sooner had she touched pen to paper than did the door to Dr Craig's office open. His bald head poked out. "Amelia?" he said. "You can come in now."

Not keen of leaving her pen and paper behind, Amy took them in with her. Aunt Sharon was just leaving the room. As she passed her niece, she stroked her hair briefly. Amy recoiled at the touch. Her aunt paused just for a moment as if she were about to say something, but then instead she just sighed and gave Dr Craig a helpless little look before continuing on into the waiting room. Amy just saw her sit down and put her head in her hands as the door closed.

Amy sat down on the sofa, and Dr Craig sat on his swivel chair. He looked at the young girl with a patient expression on his face. "Now, Amelia," he said, and Amy almost corrected him before deciding she would not give him the honour of using her nickname. Only her friends could call her Amy, and Dr Craig was no friend of hers. "Your aunt tells me you've seen a psychiatrist before, is that right?"

She nodded, wondering if the biting incident had been mentioned. Probably not, she reasoned, or else Dr Craig might be afraid of her, and she could tell he wasn't in the least.

"Right. And she says you have a bit of a runaway imagination. That's all very good and healthy for a girl your age, but she also said that sometimes you let your fantasy invade on real life. She's very worried about you, you know. That's why she brought you here, to me, so we could talk about it and come up with a solution that will help everyone."

"I'm on holiday," Amy replied haughtily, and was bewildered when Dr Craig chuckled in response.

"I'm sure you're enjoying it. School didn't get out very long ago, did it? But don't worry, Amelia, you'll be back home and playing with your friends in a few hours, though I know you had to drive a long way to get here. We're only going to have a chat, you and me."

Amy's response was to give him a sombre look. Dr Craig took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose before putting them back in place. "Amelia," he said at last. "Why don't you talk to me about some of the games you like to play?"

She shrugged. "Football, sometimes. Or biking. Hide-and-seek." She knew the answer he was looking for, of course. Well, if he wanted her to speak, she would make him pry.

Dr Craig sighed and then caught sight of the piece of paper in her hands. "You were drawing a picture while you were waiting?"

Amy recalled how she'd been asked to draw a picture for Dr Davis, and how that nasty woman had used her drawing of the Raggedy Doctor's time machine as a segway into trying to convince her he wasn't real. Amy was unwilling to listen to them, of course. The Doctor was hers and hers alone, a secret she was beginning to wish she hadn't shared with anybody, and now people were trying to take him away from her. She blamed him for it all, to a degree. If he wasn't so late, then she wouldn't be here talking to psychiatrists. She would be travelling all around the universe and through all of time with her best friend.

She looked down at the blank sheet of paper. "I didn't get to start it."

It was here that Dr Craig gave up. He asked her to talk about her Raggedy Doctor, and thus proceeded the grimly-anticipated lecture. Aunt Sharon was _concerned_ about her; she had to _understand_ that her fantasy was becoming an addiction; did she know what that word meant? There was talk, too, of other disturbing words: of _social worker_ and _trauma_ and _scheduled therapy_ and, _hopefully not, but if it came down to it, medication_.

At one point, the psychiatrist got up from his desk and crouched on the ground in front of Amy. "Amelia, your Doctor isn't real, and somewhere deep down you know that, you just need to learn to come to terms with it. As you get older, it's likely this addiction of yours can get worse. Lots of people are hoping you'll grow out of it, but it isn't healthy to have an obsession with an imaginary friend to this degree. You made that Doctor of yours up." He paused. "Do you think you maybe know _why_ you started believing in him?"

Amy's response was a statement in and of itself. She clamped down all of her sharp little teeth on Dr Craig's hand, and his howl of pain was heard down the corridor.

.~*~*~*~.

She was grounded for a week. On summer holidays, it was the worst punishment imaginable.

.~*~*~*~.

 _28 July 1996_

"Do you think there are aliens on Mars, too?" asked Mels, shimmying up the frame of the swing set. Being Mels, she didn't see the need to have to necessarily _sit_ on the seat of the swing, fun though swinging might be, and if she wanted to climb, well, _everyone_ climbed the jungle gym. The frame of the swing would serve to her purposes just as nicely.

Amy, who was sat on the wooden edge of the sand pit and watching her, shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. I guess there might be." She had her little model of the Doctor's time machine with her, snuck out of the house in her book bag. It was Sunday, and Aunt Sharon had started taking the day off work on Sundays. She'd told her aunt she was going to meet with Mels and Rory at the library, and then they were going to the playground. This was perfectly true. They'd just come from the library with a bunch of books to read and look at, and her aunt would never notice the fact that her book bag also contained the little wooden model when she returned home in a couple hours. Now Amy made it fly around through the air, making a whooshing sound with her mouth.

"I bet you your Raggedy Doctor knows," said Mels, just as her sweaty little palms failed her and she half-slid, half-tumbled to the ground. She landed awkwardly, but in a minute she was back up and trying to pull herself up the frame of the swing set again. "I bet he's been to Mars a thousand times. Do you think he'll take you if he comes for you?"

" _When_ ," Amy corrected sternly, and Mels nodded distractedly, much more interested in achieving her goal of reaching the top of the frame. What she wanted was to perch on the top rail and sit there, like she might on the monkey bars or the top of the jungle gym.

"It's cold on Mars," Rory piped up, ever the voice of reason. "Wouldn't you rather go someplace warmer?"

"Of course she wants to go to Mars!" Mels said impatiently. "Mars is _cool_."

Rory didn't happen to think Mars was that cool at all; he was much more interested in Jupiter, because it had that neverending storm on it, and he happened to believe Saturn to be the coolest planet by a long shot, but he didn't dare say as much. To go against Mels was to earn a nice, solid punch on the shoulder, something he didn't much fancy because Mels punched _hard_.

Amy rolled her eyes. "I don't care where he takes me," she sighed, "just so long as it's brilliant." She resumed playing with her model of the Doctor's time machine, standing up and circling the playground with it in the air, as some little boys might play with a model aeroplane.

Engrossed as she was, Amy hardly noticed that Mels had successfully accomplished her goal until her friend grew quite affronted at her lack of attention and shouted her name. Amy rushed over and she and Rory tripped over each other's words to congratulate her. Mels was positively glowing, of course, though she scowled when Rory reminded her to climb down _carefully_.

Mels let go of the top rail with one hand and waved to them, beginning to crow victoriously. The children were so engrossed in the moment, a snippet of childhood at its best, that they didn't notice the man in the long tan trench coat sprinting through the park, a pretty dark-skinned girl close at his heels, shouting something about a space squid; and he barely noticed them.

.~*~*~*~.

 _Early August 1996_

The nightmares began around the fourth of August. Amy could never remember them when she woke up, sitting bolt upright in bed with a gasp to find herself tangled in her sheets and duvet. She had never been a very restless sleeper. What she could recall was the overall _feeling_ the nightmares left her with: a feeling of desperation, loss, helplessness, and the crushing loneliness of a solitary childhood.

So perhaps _nightmares_ wasn't quite the right word. _Bad dreams_ would be a more faithful description.

Amy had mastered the art of creeping downstairs quietly months ago. She had memorised all the floorboards that creaked and left her door open at night so it would not squeak. Each time she had a bad dream, she would get up out of bed and put on her housecoat if there was a chill and creep downstairs very quietly.

She'd usually have a glass of milk, but nowadays she fixed herself a mug of hot cocoa. The cupboard was always well-equipped with a big box of instant hot chocolate packets and a bag of marshmallows, which made fixing cocoa quick and easy. The kettle they had whistled quietly and didn't disturb Aunt Sharon; she'd only risen and discovered her niece once, and she hadn't been cross or anything of the sort. In fact, she'd fixed herself a mug and sat down across from her niece.

It became a nightly ritual. Every time Amy had a bad dream, she would creep downstairs and make herself hot chocolate, and on those nights she would sit at the kitchen table, in the seat facing the window that overlooked the garden, and sip her hot cocoa alone.

.~*~*~*~.

"Maybe you should send him a message," suggested Rory one day. She was over at his house, and a game of Monopoly was set up in front of them, though neither child was really playing. A turn taken here and there, the occasional crow of victory.

Amy plucked at a piece of lint on the carpet. "Why?"

Rory shrugged and reached for the dice. "So he knows you're st-still waiting," he said sensibly. "That way he'll c-come for you." His old stutter, which he'd finally started to overcome around May, had started to come back again.

She shot to her feet in an instant, her hands curling into instinctive fists as they always did when she felt the need to defend her belief, defend her Raggedy Doctor. "He _is_ coming for me," she said hotly, "whether I send him a signal or not. He's just _late_." But one look at Rory's calm, if now startled gaze told her that he wasn't going to challenge her faith, not yet; knowing Rory, probably not ever. She flopped back down onto the floor. "Sorry."

A calm shrug as he dropped the dice. He'd rolled a ten with doubles. "I just hope he doesn't think you g-given up on him."

"I wouldn't," she said seriously. She picked up the house she'd put down on Fleet Street a couple of turns ago and toyed it between her fingers. "Not ever." Amy paused, then looked up at her friend again. He had not yet moved his token, his favourite being the little Scottie dog. He played with it each time. Amy was the wheelbarrow; Mels was always the hat. "How would I send him a signal?"

"I don't know," said Rory with an apologetic sigh. "It, it was just a thought. J-just an idea."

But whether it could be carried out or not, Amy thought it was a very good idea.

.~*~*~*~.

 _8 October 1996_

Her Year Three teacher was Mr Islington. A month and a half into the school year and Amy didn't like him at all. He was boring and cross all the time, and worst, he was apparently Jack Islington's uncle and of course favoured his nephew above all the other children in the class. Amy resented the fact, too, that Rory wasn't in her class this year; he'd gotten put in Miss Sadlers's class, and everyone talked about how _nice_ and _fun_ she was. Miss Sadler was Irish and according to Rory would tell her pupils all kinds of interesting Celtic myths and stories in English Language and History.

Amy took her only comfort in the fact that Mels had been put in her class. Not only because she could talk to Mels and sit next to her and do worksheets and projects together, but because Mels, cheeky as she was, provided an excellent source of entertainment for the whole class. Already Mels had had detention twice and been asked to sit in at recess five times.

Today, however, it was Amy's turn — her first time with Mr Islington. She sat at her desk and watched mournfully as her classmates pushed to get out of the room first. Everyone knew that the first one out of classroom would get to the playground sooner. On her way out, Mels cast her the briefest of apologetic shrugs before shoving to get out of the room too. Her friendship would only extend so far.

Traitor.

Once the classroom was empty, Mr Islington called Amy to his desk. "Miss Pond?" He did that; he called all the children Miss This and Mister That. Mels was Miss Zucker, and Amy was Miss Pond, but Jack was Jack. If not for this, Amy would have loved Mr Islington for it. Being addressed like a secondary school student made her feel very grown-up.

Sulkily Amy got up and went over to Mr Islington's desk. He pointed to the chair next to him and she sat, folding her hands in her lap. She wondered what she had done wrong. Last period Mr Islington had handed back the children's creative writing assignments. He had not returned Amy's. Instead he had leaned over her desk and asked her to sit in at recess and "talk to him about this." Amy, unlike Jack by the way, had spent a long time on hers, had used Aunt Sharon's fancy typewriter, and handed hers in on time.

"Well, Miss Pond, do you know why I asked you to sit in at recess?"

" _No_ ," she said indignantly. "I handed in my assignment on time."

"You did," agreed Mr Islington, as he removed what looked like her assignment from his folder. "And it was very well-written for a Year Three, Miss Pond, under any other circumstances you would have got an _A_. Well, actually, you did get an _A_ , congratulations. I'm very glad you worked hard on it. But I'm a bit concerned about the subject matter, you see, my girl."

He dropped the assignment on his desk where Amy could see it.

And then she understood.

Everyone in the school knew she was waiting for her Raggedy Doctor.

Amy had written her assignment on him.

She knew why she had been asked to sit in at recess.

By the end of recess, Mr Islington had said the word _concerned_ a total of twelve times. Amy counted.

.~*~*~*~.

 _17 October 1996_

Amy took her model of the Doctor's time machine to school with her. Aunt Sharon didn't know of course; she put it into her schoolbag with her homework and PE kit. It stayed there in her schoolbag all morning so Mr Islington wouldn't see it (morning recess was spent inside because of the rain, as was lunch) but it stopped raining by afternoon recess and the children were allowed outside.

Model time machine in hand, Amy ran around on the playground making it fly, her friends running around behind her. Mels and Rory were hostile evil alien spaceships today and they were chasing the Doctor in his time machine box all around the solar system. It was a very fun game.

"Oi! Amy Pond! Amy-Amy-Amy Pond!"

All three children turned at the sound of the teasing crow to see Jack Islington and his loyal mate Malcolm standing a few feet away on the asphalt. It just so happened that Malcolm was the biggest kid in Year Three; in fact, he was as big as the taller Year Fours.

Without a word, Rory stepped behind Mels and Rory.

Amy just scoffed. "Oh, what do _you_ want?"

Jack took a step closer. He was a little taller than Amy, though not by too much. He crossed his arms and smirked with all the attitude of an eight-year-old bully. "Is that your imaginary friend's _time machine_?" he said teasingly.

Amy glowered and curled her free hand into a fist. "The Doctor's not imaginary."

"He is, too," Jack taunted. "You just think he's real because you're _mental_. I bet you he was just a _hallucination_." _Hallucination_ was a word Jack had learned from the telly. "But there's no such man as your stupid Doctor. He's not real and you're _mad_."

"Yeah-ah," Malcolm said eloquently.

Amy dropped her model time machine on the ground and made a fist of her other hand. "He is _so_ real."

"You're just saying that," said Jack, "because you're a loony." This must have struck him as very funny, because he and Malcolm dissolved into laughter.

"Yeah-ah," said Malcolm.

"I am _not_ ," said Amy. It was a whisper.

"It's all right," Jack teased. "There are lots of loony people. Most of them are older than you are, but it's all right. There are loony bins in Leicester, and you can stay there until you get — "

He never got the chance to finish.

Rory had been watching this exchange with the solemn horror of a boy who knew what was good for him. He was after all, an especially small seven-year-old boy with a stutter. But hearing Jack Islington and Malcolm Browning having a go at his very best friend like that was more than he could put up with. He could not quite work up the courage to throw himself at Jack, but stepping out from behind Mels, he heard himself saying, "Leave her alone." His own fists were curled, not that he had any intention of using them.

Jack's attention was drawn momentarily away from Amy to the tiny boy now confronting him. He smirked. "Look, Amy. It's your boyfriend."

Amy was too angry to protest that Rory wasn't her boyfriend. She was, however, angered properly when Malcolm marched over and grabbed Rory in a headlock. At once the smaller boy let out something between a whimper and a small cry. Malcolm beamed victoriously at the two girls, and at Jack.

That was too much for Amy. Next thing she knew, she threw herself at Jack, fists at the ready. She managed to land one hard punch to his shoulder before he shoved her off. Amy fell roughly to the asphalt and ate dirt. It was a violent landing, and she was vaguely aware of her head spinning and Jack giggling hysterically.

What she was aware of next was Mels, hurling her own self at Jack, kneeing him between the legs while her hands grabbed at his blazer. He dropped to the ground and she pinned him down, punching him everywhere, in the stomach; in the jaw, in the chest. He struggled, but Mels was tougher than she looked. Malcolm dropped Rory to the ground to try and drag her off, but one meeting of her fist to his stomach had him doubled over moaning.

A moment later, Malcolm had recovered enough to run and find the yard teacher, waving his hands wildly, and Mels had the good sense to climb up off of Jack, who now lay on the ground with his hands to his bleeding lip and nose, groaning.

She slapped her hands together, the man blowing the air over the nose of his pistol in an old Western movie, and helped Amy to her feet, then Rory. " _That_ ," she said with a self-satisfied air, "was for hurting my friend. And _that_ " — she kicked him, hard — "was for saying the Doctor's not real. Because he is, you know. Just you wait and see."


	7. Chapter 7

.

 _Counting_

Author's Note: And so, alas, it ends. I would like to take a moment to thank all my lovely reviewers and readers, in particular **judybear236** and **InsertImaginativeNameHere**. I know my updates have been somewhat staggered and this story was on the slow side but I'm glad you all enjoyed it nevertheless. And here it is, the final chapter, while quite short, I find makes for a rather appropriate end to this ficlet. To Amy Pond, the girl who waited. May we all eat fish fingers and custard in memory of the best _Doctor Who_ companion ever. Cheers. *raises cup of green tea*

* * *

Chapter Seven

.~*~*~*~.

 _16 December 1996_

Holidays at last. The schoolchildren streamed out of the building emitting whooping cheers, and Amy was no exception. She raced ahead of many of her schoolmates, doing up the zipper of her coat as she went, for she hardly had the patience for such trivial things as pausing to do it up at her cubby.

Being the tallest of the three, Amy didn't even have the patience to wait for her friends. Instead she sprinted ahead of them and ran all the way to the school gates before stopping and waiting for Mels and Rory to arrive.

Mels appeared half a minute after Amy, grinning from ear to ear. The two friends took each other's hands and jumped up and down a little, squealing in excitement because winter holidays had come and Christmastime and New Year's were just around the corner. Both had already written their letters to Father Christmas, of course, and had made sure to cover it in their very best crayon drawing and use their best penmanship so that Father Christmas might favour them over children with poor handwriting. It was important Father Christmas favoured them over other children because that meant he would get their presents earlier, and the bookshops in the North Pole would not run out and his elves would not run out of material before all the toys were made. This was a valuable and rare bit of information that had been taught to them by Rory's mummy years ago, when they were just learning how to write.

Of course, not all of Amy's requests could be made by the elves, but that was all right because everyone knew Father Christmas had magic powers.

The girls waited impatiently for Rory to arrive, hopping from one foot to the other to keep warm. It had rained every day the past week, and had been so positively pouring when they walked to school that morning that even Mr Islington had allowed his students to take off their shoes and socks to go about barefoot for a little while because their feet were so wet. Furthermore, all signs pointed to snow over the holiday. While this was a very exciting prospect – they'd scarcely gotten a few flakes last year, and the year before – it also meant it was cold for December.

"I wish he'd hurry up," groused Mels, not one for politeness.

Finally Rory was seen, trudging across the schoolyard with his hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket, his head bowed against the frigid air. Mels pointedly rolled her eyes as they waited for him to reach them. When they finally did, she gave him a solid shoulder-punch. " _There_ you are," she said in a tone that suggested he'd committed some unspeakable crime.

Rory shivered and rubbed the sore spot on his shoulder, wincing. "I didn't t-take that long," he muttered sullenly.

Mels, however, did not care for such things. She patted her pocket, where her treasured twenty pounds sat in four ₤5 notes, the most money she'd had in a while. Her foster parents had given her this precious amount of pocket money for her own spending with her friends on the last day of school before Christmas break. Mels was not accustomed to having so much to spend, partially because ₤20 was quite a lot for a seven-year-old to be carrying around, and partially because she was always being deprived of her weekly allowance for the trouble she constantly got herself in. It was hard to believe, but Mels might just be on her worst behaviour yet this year.

"Oh, stop fighting, you two," said Amy with a roll of her eyes. She tugged Rory's hood over his eyes, and he swatted it back down again. "Are we going to get something together, or not?"

They went to Rosie's, a snug little coffeehouse a few blocks from the school, with armchairs and a fireplace. The children shed their coats and were pleased to find the very best seats, the table by the fireplace, was free. They settled into the deep armchairs and made themselves comfortable, feeling very grown-up. Amy had taken her rag doll of the Doctor and now she propped it up next to her in the armchair.

She and Rory both ordered hot chocolates and chocolate-chip cookies. Mels ordered a raisin bran cookie and a coffee. As the children settled back down at their table with their ordered, they gaped at Mels. "Have you _had_ coffee before?" Rory wanted to know, eyes very wide, and Mels nodded smugly.

As they sipped their hot chocolates (or in Mels' case, her coffee), they discussed the matter of the extremely important day around the corner. "What did _you_ ask Father Christmas for?"

Mels and Rory began to talk over each other; Rory answering her question, and Mels answering her own, apparently not interested in giving Rory the chance. Amy tried to listen to both of them, but it was not easy because Mels was very loud. She managed to gather that Mels wanted nail polish and lip balm, and Rory wanted the game Operation and some book series neither of them had heard of.

They were all just interested in toys. Amy had asked for some normal presents, too, mind: she wanted a new box of crayons and a castle for her fish bowl and a new doll. But there was only wish that she truly cared about coming true.

Later, Amy would walk home with her schoolbag slung over her shoulder and her coat done up, and her rag doll dangling loosely from one hand. She took a different route than Rory, claiming that Aunt Sharon wanted her to get eggs from the shop, and would refuse Rory's suggestion he come with her. Frankly, much as she loved Rory, for he was the dearest friend she could wish for at seven years of age, he'd been getting a bit clingy lately.

In truth, Aunt Sharon had not asked Amy to get eggs from the shop. She had not asked her to get anything, nor was she even aware that Amy had gone to Rosie's with her friends. Aunt Sharon's boss had been called on a business trip to Birmingham, and that meant that as his secretary, Aunt Sharon had to go with him. They'd left early today and it was likely they would not be back until Monday morning, or very late on Sunday, after Amy went to bed. It was not the first time her aunt had gone on business trips for the weekend, and Amy didn't mind much.

It meant she could wait outside as long as she liked. Or at least, until it grew too cold to be sitting outside waiting.

Now, she took the long route home, all the way around the main square, through the car park of Leadworth's single three-storey estate building, around the back of the hospital, along what the local called "Pub Alley," past the school, across the bridge, and finally through her own residential neighbourhood. Hazel eyes skyward, lips open in a prayer that came out in breaths that caught in the frigid air.

The forecasted weather had arrived at last, the delicate snowflakes wafting down and settling, gently, onto the pavement, turning the Midlands-grey landscape of Leadworth into something almost resembling prettiness. Some caught in the folds of Amy's hat, her eyelashes, and melted when she blinked.

.~*~*~*~.

 _21 December 1996_

Next Saturday, Aunt Sharon took Amy to the shop to pick a tree. This would be a day for decorating the house for Christmas, and it was one Amy had been looking forward to for a while. Some families in Leadworth put their Christmas decorations up just after Hallowe'en, and didn't take them down 'til March. This meant that by the time Christmas rolled around, everyone in the town knew what their house was to look like over the holidays, and that was very dull.

When it came to Christmas, Aunt Sharon was as practical a woman as could be met. She believed in keeping up Christmas decorations for no more than a week (usually this became a week and a bit because she didn't have the energy to take them down for a while, but no matter). But even though the Pond household of two didn't keep their decorations up for long, theirs were always the very best on the street.

The tree they picked was tall and thin, and still had the delicious smell of pine. Aunt Sharon had the men from the shop deliver it to their house, because of course it was too large for one person (in high-heeled shoes) and her seven-year-old niece to lug halfway across town. While the tree was being brought over, Amy was sent to the cellar to bring up the boxes of ornaments, the reindeer for the garden, and the boxes of fairy lights. This she did, clad in her favourite green Christmas jumper for festive purposes, huffing and puffing as she hauled heavy boxes up and down the stairs, and feeling very grown-up about being able to handle the fragile items this year.

When Aunt Sharon got home with the tree, they erected it in the lounge, by the window so that it could be seen from the street. They hung it with brightly coloured bulbs, beautiful stained-glass ornaments from Inverness and tiny wooden angels, draped tinsel and fairy lights from its sweet-smelling branches, and of course placed a star on the top. Amy dragged the armchair halfway across the room and climbed atop it for the honour of crowning their tree with the star, and when they were done they closed the curtains and turned out all the lights and agreed it was one of their best trees yet.

The truth was, that for all Amy's resentment of Aunt Sharon, she was, at the end of the day her aunt, absent or not, and she loved her. It was at times like these she could really understand and feel that, when her aunt wasn't busy and wasn't nagging at her about her runaway imagination and fixation on the Raggedy Doctor. It was just Amy, and Aunt Sharon, and the air between them. At times like these, it tasted warm and sweet.

But the house was not even half-done yet, oh no. Next there was plastic mistletoe to hang from all the doorways of the lower floor, and a wreath for the door, and while there wasn't a fireplace, they hung their stockings from the windowsill. Finally, they strung the tree out front with fairy lights, and there were still lights for the roof.

Aunt Sharon wanted to make the tree out front extra-bright this year, and use the fairy lights for that, but Amy wanted them on the roof. She was not allowed to climb up there, but Aunt Sharon kicked off her high-heeled shoes and did it herself while Amy watched, awed, from the garden by the ailing sunlight.

Later, after supper, when the sky had turned a fine bruised black, but it was not so late that she had to go to bed, Amy put on her coat and boots and ran outside to admire the lights in all their glory. She wanted to make extra-sure the lights on the roof were especially bright and noticeable, a beacon for the friend she was waiting for.

.~*~*~*~.

 _Christmas Eve 1996_

Leadworth was the sort of town in which having the most Christmassy house on the block was considered a very honourable thing, and Amy's house had won this title several years in a row now. She supposed she was rather proud of it, and in the days before Christmas, when she went outside to do anything, she liked to stop on the walk and admire it. She especially liked it at night. Sometimes, she would creep downstairs at night and make herself a hot chocolate just to admire the tree. She would sit in the lounge, bathed in the weak light of the Christmas tree, and stare, captivated by the simple wonderment of it in the way only a child could.

On Christmas Eve, however, she and Aunt Sharon got the chance to show off their house to some of the rest of the neighbourhood. Aunt Sharon invited over her work friends for a Christmas dinner party, and Amy asked Mels and Rory to come. Mels, however, could not make it, as she was being dragged all the way to Northampton for Christmas; her foster mother was going to be visit her brother for the holidays. It turned out Mels didn't see why they _all_ had to go, especially her. "I'm not even _your_ _real_ daughter," Mels had apparently argued but it also turned out that this upset her foster parents, and even if she hadn't said that they would have made her come.

But it was 8pm, and dinner had been eaten. All the guests were now gathered in the lounge, laughing and talking and drinking champagne with Christmas carols playing on low volume over the radio; white noise. Amy hung by Rory, for he was the only other child at the party. They were given eggnog to drink, and a plate gingerbread cookies to nibble on. The children huddled in the corner by the stockings, busying themselves with a game of Clue, both of them in their very best clothes.

Rory was wearing the grey suit he'd worn to his uncle's wedding in the spring, and Amy was wearing her standard red velvet "fancy dress." Amy loved that dress, and as it was her first time wearing it around Rory, she sort of wished he would mention it. She'd worn it last Christmas but it still fit her. It was a dark shade of red, with short sleeves and a hem that brushed her knees, and a white lace that collar that was only a little bit tight, but it was such a nice dress Amy didn't care. Wearing it made her feel like Aileen Quinn in _Annie_.

They went on playing Clue, and Amy picked Professor Plum off the board and fiddled with him, beginning to feel sullen even though it was Christmas.

" _Hey_!" Rory objected. "Put Professor Plum back in the kitchen."

Amy did as he asked, but not without removing the scowl from her face. She picked up the dice but would not roll them. Well, _that_ got Rory's attention.

"What's the matter?" he wanted to know. "Aren't you excited it's Christmas?"

Amy scowled at him. "It's not Christmas," she said. "It's Christmas Eve."

Rory considered this. "Well, it's almost Christmas."

"So?"

Rory tried a different angle. "Aren't you excited to get your presents?"

Amy dropped the dice and they clattered across the board. An eleven. She picked up Colonel Mustard but did not move him yet. She glanced over her shoulder to check on the grown-ups, but they were busy laughing and discussing boring topics like politics. They weren't paying the children the slightest bit of attention. She leaned forward conspiratorially, and Rory leaned closer to listen. "Rory," said Amy in a low voice, "you know what I want for Christmas. And I don't know if Santa can get it for me. He's got magic powers, so I'm hoping be able to help, but the Doctor's special too."

Rory looked very grave. "Santa can do anything," he said trustingly. "I b-bet the Doctor will come for you. You'll see."

Amy leaned back so as not to look suspicious, and nibbled at a cookie. "Hey," she said. "Do you want to see something?" Clue had been getting boring, anyway.

He brightened. "Okay!"

"Get your coat." Amy ran over to Aunt Sharon and asked permission to go outside for a few minutes to look at the houses, all lit up, with Rory. When she was greeted with a vague nod, a gleeful Amy grabbed her hat and peacoat from where they were hanging on a peg by the door, and stepped into her boots, then waited impatiently for Rory to dig his coat from the depths of the hall closet. He was so tiny she wondered if he could get lost in there, among all those big winter coats. If it had been a wardrobe like in his parents' room, she would have wondered if he might stumble upon Narnia, go on adventures, and never come out again. She wondered if he might be swallowed up.

But Rory emerged, though not without stumbling, putting on his jacket and scarf. He stepped into his boots and the two children went out the door and stood in the middle of the garden, looking out onto the street. The houses were all lit up, strung with the LED glow of the lights, and those houses with trees in their front yards had strung them up with Christmas lights as well. It wasn't snowing properly, but the ground was brushed with the early dustings of snow, the flakes like the forgotten feathers of angels fallen to earth.

Amy stared at the houses, peppered up for the holiday season, and then turned to her own house, the most lavishly-decorated of all. She wondered if the lights on the roof would be enough to bring her Raggedy Doctor to her, and sighing, rested her head on top of Rory's. He, in turn, rested his on her shoulder and they admired the lights like that in silence. In that moment, they neither looked nor felt like children.

"Do you think he's coming, Rory?" Amy asked softly, and Rory knew she didn't mean Father Christmas.

In full honesty, Rory didn't _know_ if he believed in Amy's stories about the Raggedy Doctor. The idea of a man with a time machine coming from the sky to eat fish fingers and custard was a funny one, and the idea of the Doctor himself was almost too fantastic to be true. His young but sensible mind knew that Amy had a tendency to get carried away with her storytelling (in kindergarten, she managed to convince both Rory and Mels that there was a rhino living in the girl's toilets), but the story of the Doctor was just such a wonderful and well-crafted one, he found himself conflicted. He knew all the grown-ups, including Amy's Aunt Sharon and the teachers at school, didn't believe her, as grown-ups were wont to do with their dull and cynical minds. And he knew most of the children at school didn't believe her either; Jack Islington and his crowd of bullies had extended to half of Year Three. But Mels believed, whole-heartedly and loyally, and Rory didn't say anything because he didn't want to upset his friend. Up until now, he'd mostly been happy just to play the games and not think about whether or not the Doctor was real at all.

Now, for Amy's benefit, he said, "Yes. Of c-course I do."

Amy smiled at him, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a hug. "Good. Thanks, Rory." She cocked her head, thinking. "You know what, though?"

"What?"

"When he finally does come for me, when he says hello, I'm going to punch him as hard as I can. He deserves it."

Frankly, Rory thought so, too.

.~*~*~*~.

It was five minutes before midnight. Amy darted up the stairs and tore open the door to her room, throwing it shut behind her. She made a beeline for the window and looked out of it in borderline desperation. Perhaps now? Now would be the absolute best time for him to come, the most appropriate …

But there was only the dark sky, and the new garden shed, and the frost-dead ground.

Amy turned and, with sudden motivation, kneeled down by her bed. Clasping her hands together, she uttered the only prayer she knew.

"Dear Santa … "

After all, she reasoned, it worked once, didn't it?

.~*~*~*~.

 **END**


End file.
